UCSB   LIBRARY 


The  Girl  the  Son  Married. 


Letters  from  a  Son  to 
His  Self-Made  Father 


By 
CHARLES   EUSTACE    MERRIMAN 


BEING  the  REPLIES  to 
LETTERS  from  a  SELF-MADE 
MERCHANT  to  his  SON 


Illustrations  by 
FRED     KULZ 


New   Hampshire    Publishing    Corporation 

BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 

tut 


Copyright,  1903 

by 
HENRY  G.  PAGANI. 


Entered  at 
STATIONERS  HALL. 

All  Rights  Reserved. 


TO 

flDarfc  Uwain 

A  READY-MADE  WIT 


ILL  US  TRA  TIONS. 


"The  Son'1  in  College. 

His  College  Girl. 

"  The  Son"  as  a   Travelling  Salesman. 

His  Society  Girl. 

"The  Son"  as  Manager  of  His  Father's  Pork- 
packing  Establishment. 

The  Girl  He  Marries. 


LETTER   NO.   I. 


LETTER  No.  I. 

Pierrepont   Graham,  a  newly  fledged  Freshman 

at  Harvard,   writes  his  father,  John,  in 

Chicago,  how  he  and  the  University 

are  getting  along  together. 

CAMBRIDGE,  Oct.  10,  189 — 
Dear  Father : 

I  know  you  will  accuse  me  of  lack  of  the 
business  promptness  which  is  the  red  label 
on  your  brand  of  success,  but  I  really 
couldn't  answer  your  letter  before.  I  have 
been  trying  to  reconcile  your  maxims  of 
life  with  the  real  thing,  and  I  had  to  get 
busy  and  keep  so.  Reconciliation  has  not 
yet  come,  leastwise  not  so  as  you  would 
notice  it. 

I'm  glad  Ma  got  back  safe  to  the  stock- 
yards, for  when  she  left  Cambridge  that 
morning  she  didn't  quite  feel  as  if  she 
would.  I  thought  she  had  too  large  a  roll 
to  be  travelling  around  the  country  with, 
and  convinced  her  that  she  ought  to  leave 
all  but  $8  and  her  return  ticket  with  me. 
Its  a  great  thing  to  have  a  good  mother. 


12  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

the  value  of  money  as  never  before.  Money 
talks  here  quite  as  much  as  in  Chicago; 
not  so  loudly,  perhaps,  but  faster.  As  you 
have  always  advised  me  to  be  sociable,  I 
find  it  pretty  lively  work  keeping  up  my 
share  in  the  pecuniary  conversation,  espe- 
cially as  in  all  our  little  gatherings  there 
are  always  several  fellows  whose  money 
doesn't  talk  even  in  signs. 

Taking  it  by  and  large,  as  you  say  so 
often,  Harvard  seems  all  right,  although  the 
fellows  say  the  term  hasn't  really  opened, 
as  there's  nothing  doing  yet  in  the  legiti- 
mate drama  in  the  Boston  theatres.  They 
have  a  queer  custom  of  colloquial  abbrevia- 
tion here—  they  call  it "  leg.  drama,"  or  "  leg. 
show."  Curious,  isn't  it  ? 

If  you  value  my  peace  of  mind,  dear 
father,  don't  write  any  more  educated  pig 
stories  to  me.  Such  anecdotes  strike  me 
as  verging  close  on  personalities.  In  fact, 
the  whole  pig  question  just  now  hits  me  in 
a  tender  spot.  Even  the  pen  I  am  using 
makes  me  shudder.  I  hate  to  look  a  gift 
hog  in  the  mouth,  but  I  wish  you  had  made 
your  money  in  coal  or  patent  medicine,  or 
anything  that  wasn't  porcine.  Fact  is,  I've 
got  a  nickname  out  of  your  business,  and 


TO  HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  13 

it'll  stick  so  that  even  your  boss  hogman. 
Milligan,  couldn't  scald  it  off. 

You  see,  I  board  at  Memorial  Hall  with 
about  1199  other  hungry  wretches,  and 
let  me  tell  you  that  your  yarns  about  old 
Lem  Hostitter  and  his  skin-bruised  hams 
wouldn't  go  for  a  cent  here.  Memorial  is 
the  limit  for  bad  grub,  and  thereby  hangs 
a  curly  tail.  The  other  day  at  dinner,  things 
were  so  rotten  that  an  indignation  meeting 
was  held  on  the  spot,  and  a  committee  of 
investigation  was  appointed  to  go  to  the 
kitchen  and  see  what  kind  of  vile  stuff  was 
being  shovelled  at  us. 

There  must  have  been  a  rough-house  in 
the  culinary  cellar,  for  we  heard  a  tremen- 
dous racket  in  which  the  crash  of  crockery 
and  the  banging  of  tin  predominated. 
Pretty  soon  the  committee  came  back  bring- 
ing a  dozen  or  so  of  cans,  waving  them 
about  and  yelling  like  Indians.  When  they 
got  near  enough  for  me  to  see,  I  shuddered, 
for  on  every  blessed  can  of  them  was  your 
label,  father  —  that  old  red  steer  pawing  the 
ground  as  if  he  smelt  something  bad. 

Just  one  table  away  from  me  the  gang 
stopped,  and  a  fat  senior  they  call "  Hippo  " 
Smith  rapped  for  order.  Even  the  girls  in 
the  gallery  quit  gabbling. 


14  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

"Gentlemen,"  yelled  the  senior,  "your 
committee  begs  leave  to  report  that  it  has 
discovered  the  abominable  truck  that  has 
been  ruining  our  palates  and  torturing  our 
vitals.  It's  these  cans  of  trichinated  pork, 
unclassable  sausages  and  mildewed  beef 
that  have  made  life  a  saturnalia  of  dyspep- 
sia for  us,  and  every  one  of  'em  bears  the 
label '  Graham  &  Company,  Chicago.' " 

Then  you  ought  to  have  heard  the  roaring. 

"  Down  with  Graham  &  Co. ! "  "  Let's  go 
to  Chicago  and  lynch  Graham."  "  Con- 
founded old  skinflint ! "  the  fellows  shouted. 
I  turned  pale  and  thought  what  a  narrow 
escape  I  was  having. 

Just  then  up  got  little  "  Bud  "  Hoover, 
old  Doc's  grandson,  whom  you  have  always 
held  up  to  me  as  a  model  of  truth-telling 
you  know.  Bud's  a  sophomore,  and  thinks 
he's  a  bigger  man  than  old  Eliot. 

"  Here's  Graham's  son,"  he  piped  in  his 
rat-tail-file  voice  that  you  could  hear  over 
all  the  rumpus,  and  pointing  right  at  me, 
"  Ask  him  about  it." 

There  was  nothing  for  it  for  me  but  to 
get  up  and  defend  the  family  honor.  As  I 
was  about  to  speak  I  saw  another  fellow 
running  in  from  the  kitchen  with  a  big  ham, 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  15 

yellow  covered  and  bearing  a  big  red  label, 
—  your  label.  I  had  a  great  inspiration.  I 
felt  that  ham  would  prove  our  salvation. 

"  Gentlemen,  I  am  the  son  of  John  Gra- 
ham," I  said  haughtily,  "  and  glad  of  it,  for 
he  has  got  more  dough  than  this  whole 
blamed  college  is  worth  ;  and,  to  show  that 
you're  all  wrong,  I'm  going  to  quote  some- 
thing that  he  wrote  me  last  week.  Just  you 
listen : 

"'  If  you'll  probe  into  a  thing  which  looks 
sweet  and  sound  on  the  skin  to  see  if  you 
can't  fetch  up  a  sour  smell  from  around  the 
bone,  you'll  be  all  right.'" 

That  hit  'em  in  great  shape,  and  "  Hippo  " 
Smith  took  a  big  carver  and  slashed  the 
ham  into  shoe-strings  in  about  thirty  sec- 
onds. Then  he  lifted  the  bone  to  his  nose 
and  let  out  a  yell  that  sent  all  the  girls  up- 
stairs flying.  The  other  fellows  sniffed  and 
bellowed  with  him. 

The  next  thing  I  knew  the  bone  landed 
violently  on  my  neck  and  the  air  was  full 
of  tin  cans,  four  of  which  met  splendid  in- 
terference from  my  head.  When  I  came 
to  I  could  hear  four  hundred  voices  shout- 
ing "Piggy,  piggy,  oowee,  oowee  oowee," 
at  me,  and  I  knew  I  had  passed  through  a 


1 6  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

baptism  of  rapid  fire.  They  were  the  "  roast 
beef  and  blood-gravy  boys  "  you  mentioned 
in  your  letter,  for  sure. 

The  surgeon's  bill  is  $75,  which  I  know 
you  will  pay  cheerfully  for  my  gallant  de. 
fense  of  the  house.  But  I  wish  you'd  put 
up  better  stuff.  Your  label  is  a  dandy,  but 
couldn't  you  economize  in  lithographs  and 
buy  better  pigs  ?  By  the  way,  the  fellows 
have  nicknamed  you  the"  Ham-fat  Philos- 
opher." The  letter  did  it.  But  don't  feel 
hurt;  I've  already  almost  got  used  to  being 
called  "  Piggy  "  myself. 

I  am  appreciating  more  and  more  the 
golden  truths  of  your  cold  storage  precepts. 
As  you  say  "  Right  and  wrong  don't  need 
to  be  labelled  for  a  boy  with  a  good  con- 
science." Good  consciences  must  be  scarce 
around  here,  for  on  the  other  side  of  Har- 
vard Bridge  they  label  wrong  with  red 
lights,  and  I've  failed  to  find  a  fellow  yet 
who  is  color  blind. 

In  my  pursuit  of  knowledge  I  have  made 
the  acquaintance  of  quite  a  number  of  the 
police  force.  They  seem  to  me  to  be  an 
undiscerning  lot.  For  instance,  I  heard 
one  of  them  say  the  other  day  that  Harvard 
turned  out  fools.  This  isn't  true,  for,  to 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  1 7 

my  certain  knowledge,  there  are  quite  a 
number  of  fools  who  have  been  in  the 
University  several  years. 

I  am  unable  to  write  at  any  further  length 
this  evening,  as  I  must  attend  a  lecture  in 
Course  XIII.  on  Banks  and  Banking,  by 
Professor  Pharo. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

PIERREPONT  GRAHAM. 

P.  S.  I  am  trying  hard  to  be  a  good 
scholar,  and  am  really  learning  a  thing  or 
two.  But  I  respect  your  anxiety  that  I 
should  also  be  "a  good,  clean  man,"  and 
almost  every  Sunday  morning  I  wake  up 
in  a  Turkish  bath. 


LETTER   NO.   II. 


LETTER  No.  II. 

PierreponVs    University  progress  along    rather 
unique  lines  is  duly  chronicled  for  the  pater- 
nal information ,  and  some  rather  thrill- 
ing experiences  are  noted. 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  7,  189 — 
Dear  Dad : 

I  am  sincerely  sorry  my  last  expense 
account  has  made  you  round-shouldered. 
I  should  think  you  pay  your  cashier  well 
enough  to  let  him  take  the  burden  of  this 
sort  of  thing.  Better  try  it  when  next 
month's  bills  come  in,  for  I  should  hate  to 
have  a  hump-backed  father. 

You  haven't  the  worst  end  of  this  ex- 
pense account  business,  by  any  means.  If 
it  makes  you  round-shouldered  to  look  it 
over,  as  you  say,  you  can  just  gamble  a 
future  in  the  short  ribs  of  your  dutiful  son 
that  it  made  me  cross-eyed  to  put  it  to- 
gether. You  see  there  are  so  many  items 
that  a  Philistine  —  that's  what  Professor 
Wendell  calls  men  who  haven't  been  to 
Harvard  —  couldn't  be  expected  to  under- 


22  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

stand.  I  was  afraid  that  $150  for  inci- 
dental expenses  in  the  Ethnological  course 
wouldn't  be  quite  clear  to  you.  It  may  be 
necessary  to  tell  you  that  Ethnology  is  the 
study  of  races,  and  the  text-books  are  very 
costly  and  hard  to  procure.  But  the  fel- 
lows are  very  fond  of  the  course ;  it  is  so 
full  of  human  interest  that  it  is  a  real  pas- 
time for  them.  In  fact,  they  sportively  call 
it  "playing  the  races,"  to  the  great  delight 
of  dear  old  Professor  Bookmaker,  our  in- 
structor. 

Your  suggestion  that  I  appear  to  be  try- 
ing to  buy  Cambridge  proves  you  are  not 
posted  on  conditions  here.  I  am,  and  I 
may  say  enpassant,  the  conditions  are  also 
posted  on  me  —  the  Dean  sees  to  that.  I 
wouldn't  buy  Cambridge  if  it  were  for  sale. 
I  never  had  any  taste  for  antiques.  There 
are  purchasable  things  in  Boston  far  more 
attractive;  if  you  will  come  on  I'll  be  glad 
to  let  you  look  'em  over.  I  like  Cambridge 
well  enough  daytimes,  but  the  most  inter- 
esting thing  in  it  is  the  electric  car  that 
runs  to  Boston. 

I  realize  that  my  expenses  grow  heavier 
each  month,  but  money  not  only  has  wings, 
but  swims  like  a  duck,  and  the  fashionable 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  23 

fluid  to  float  it  is  costly.  I'm  really  begin- 
ning to  believe  that  a  man  who  can  read, 
write  and  speak  seven  or  eight  languages 
may  be  an  utter  failure  unless  he's  able  to 
say  "No"  in  at  least  one  of  them. 

The  problem  of  how  to  get  rich  has  not 
yet  been  reached  in  the  Higher  Mathe- 
matics course  and  so  it's  not  worrying  me, 
as  you  seem  to  think.  But  of  course  I 
don't  want  to  cast  reflections  on  the  sol- 
vency of  the  house  of  Graham  &  Co.,  so  I 
try  to  keep  my  end  up.  It's  expensive, 
for  there  are  fellows  here  who've  got  bigger 
fools  than  I  have  for  —  but  this  wasn't  what 
I  started  to  say.  All  men  may  be  born 
equal,  but  they  get  over  it  a  good  sight 
easier  than  they  do  the  measles ;  and  while 
some  of  the  fellows  have  to  study  in  cold 
rooms,  others  have  money  to  burn.  Pov- 
erty may  not  be  a  crime,  but  it's  a  grave 
misdemeanor  in  Cambridge. 

I  am  grieved,  my  dear  father,  to  have 
you  say  that  you  haven't  noticed  any  signs 
of  my  taking  honors  here  at  Cambridge. 
You  cannot  have  read  the  society  columns 
of  the  Boston  papers,  or  you  would  have 
seen  that  I  have  already  a  degree  from 
the  Cotillion  Society,  as  being  a  proficient 


24  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

student  of  the  German;  am  entitled  to 
the  letters  B.A.A.  after  my  name  —  a  privi- 
lege granted  by  a  learned  Boston  organiza- 
tion after  very  severe  tests,  and  have  been 
extended  the  freedom  of  Boston  Common 
by  the  aldermen  of  the  city.  If  these  things 
don't  justify  the  inking  up  of  a  few  pink 
slips,  you  can  souse  my  knuckles.  It 
grieves  me  to  have  you  fail  to  appreciate 
what  I've  accomplished.  I  am  trying  to 
do  your  credit, —  what  a  foolish  little  slip; 
rub  the  "  r  "  from  "  your  "  and  you'll  see  my 
meaning. 

Another  thing  that  proves  my  high  stand- 
ing in  college  is  the  fact  that  I've  been  ad- 
mitted to  the  D.K.E.,  playfully  known  here 
as  the  "  Dicky,"  a  very  exclusive  and  high- 
toned  literary  and  debating  society,  spe- 
cially patronized  by  the  Faculty.  The  initi- 
ation ceremonies  are  very  curious,  and  I 
really  believe  you  would  laugh  to  see  some 
of  the  innocent  little  pranks  the  new  men 
cut  up.  They  are  sent  around  town  and 
over  into  Boston  dressed  in  quaint  garb 
and  instructed  to  ask  roguish  questions  of 
any  they  meet.  This  is  to  give  them  self- 
possession  in  debate  and  calmness  in  facing 
the  battles  of  life.  It  would  meet  with  your 
hearty  approval,  I  am  sure. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  25 

For  my  little  trial  I  was  compelled  to 
wear  a  yellow  Mother  Hubbard,  with  a 
belt  of  empty  Graham  &  Co.  tin  cans  fas- 
tened around  my  waist  and  a  double  rope 
of  your  sausages  hanging  from  my  neck. 
A  silk  hat  completed  the  rig.  Thus  accou- 
tred I  was  told  to  promenade  up  and  down 
Tremont  street  over  in  Boston,  a  swell 
walk  opposite  the  Common,  and  bark  like 
a  dog.  Every  five  minutes  I  had  to  button- 
hole some  one  and  shout  "  Buy  Graham  & 
Co.'s  pork  products  and  you'll  never  use 
any  others." 

Well,  the  long  and  short  of  it  is  that  I 
became  a  marked  man  on  the  gay  boule- 
vard. Small  boys  tendered  me  a  free  escort 
and  made  insulting  remarks,  which  I  en- 
dured cheerfully  for  the  cause.  It  vexed 
me  a  bit,  though,  to  find  that  one  of  the 
persons  I  advised  as  to  our  meats  was  Miss 
Vane  of  Chicago.  She  looked  unutterable 
things  and  murmured  something  to  her 
escort  at  which  he  smiled  pityingly.  If 
you  hear  that  I  drink,  you  will  know  exactly 
how  the  rumor  started,  and  discredit  it 
accordingly. 

Finally  the  crowd  around  me  became 
so  dense  that  street  traffic  was  blocked, 


26  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

and  I  was  taken  in  charge  by  a  policeman 
for  disorderly  conduct.  In  another  minute 
I  was  arrested  by  a  meat  inspector  for  ex- 
posing adulterated  foods  for  sale.  Between 
the  two  of  them  it  was  a  simple  little  cot 
that  night  and  a  frugal  breakfast  next  morn- 
ing for  Pierrepont.  I  was  discharged  on 
the  disorderly  conduct  count,  but  fined 
$100  and  costs  on  the  bad  meat  item.  The 
judge  ordered  all  the  windows  opened 
when  it  came  into  court.  Father,  it's  up  to 
Graham  &  Co.  to  make  good  the  deficit  in 
my  month's  allowance.  As  a  philosopher, 
you  will  see  the  point,  I  am  sure.  Perhaps 
a  little  bonus  for  mental  suffering  will  sug- 
gest itself  to  you. 

I  simply  mention  this  in  a  general  way 
to  let  you  know  how  your  pork  products 
are  regarded  in  the  east,  where  the  health 
laws  are  stricter  than  in  Chicago.  I  would 
advise  you  to  play  harder  for  the  Klondike 
trade  and  cut  Boston  off  your  drummers' 
maps.  This  is  a  bit  of  "  thinking  for  the 
house"  that  I'm  not  charging  anything  for. 
It's  sense,  though,  and  you  can  coin  it  into 
dollars  if  you  see  fit. 

Dear  old  father,  always  planning  for  my 
comfort  and  pecuniary  welfare !  You  wrote 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  27 

that  when  I  have  had  my  last  handshake 
with  John  the  Orangeman,  I  am  to  enter 
the  Graham  packing  plant  to  lick  postage 
stamps  as  a  mailing  clerk  at  $8  a  week. 
Honestly,  dad,  I  don't  feel  worthy  of  so 
much.  Make  me  an  office  boy  at  three  per 
and  let  me  grow  up  with  the  business. 
And  I  can't  lick  a  postage  stamp  —  really, 
I  can't.  Professor  Plexus,  our  instructor 
in  calisthenics,  told  me  so  the  other  day. 
He  is  a  coarse  and  brutal  man  and  I  think 
I  shall  cut  his  elective  out  next  semester. 

But  of  course  I  shall  accept  your  offer, 
although  I  should  prefer  a  partnership,  no 
matter  how  silent;  for  I  shall  be  glad  to 
be  on  hand  in  case  anything  should  happen 
to  you.  Despite  the  law  of  averages  you 
never  can  tell,  you  know. 

As  you  say,  there's  plenty  of  room  at  the 
top.  But  that's  where  I'd  like  to  start.  I'd 
take  all  the  chances  of  falling  down  the 
elevator  well.  Even  if  one  starts  at  the 
bottom,  he's  not  safe.  The  elevator  may 
fall  on  him. 

You  say  that  Adam  invented  all  the  dif- 
ferent ways  in  which  a  young  man  can 
make  a  fool  of  himself.  If  he  did  — 
which,  with  all  due  respect  to  you,  pater,  I 


28  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

doubt  —  it's  a  wonder  to  me  that  Beelezebub 
didn't  quit  his  job  in  Adam's  favor.  I  have 
no  doubt  it  pays  to  be  good,  but  you  know 
better  than  I  do  that  it  often  takes  a  long 
time  to  get  a  business  well  established. 
Misdeeds  may  be  sure  to  find  you  out,  but 
if  they  do  they'll  call  again. 

I've  devoted  a  good  deal  of  thought  to 
your  maxims,  which  I  realize  to  be  sensible 
if  homely,  but,  after  all,  if  people  practiced 
what  other  people  preached,  the  preachers 
would  have  to  take  on  a  new  line  of  goods. 
At  all  events  I  won't  allow  myself  to  worry. 
The  man  who's  long  on  pessimism  is  usu- 
ally short  on  liver  pills.  Misanthropy  is 
only  an  aristocratic  trade-mark  for  bilious- 
ness. 

I  don't  do  things  just  because  the  other 
fellows  do,  as  you  suggest,  but  for  the  sake 
of  the  family  name  I  must  observe  the  pro- 
prieties. Even  in  this  I  do  not  go  to  such 
extremes  as  the  Afro-American  gentleman 
who  sells  hot  corn  and  "  hot  dogs  "  in  Har- 
vard Square  in  their  respective  seasons. 
His  wife  died  a  few  weeks  ago  and  he 
found  it  pretty  hard  to  get  a  living  and 
crap  stakes  without  a  laundress  in  the 
family.  So  he  married  a  stout  wench  about 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE    FATHER.  29 

ten  days  ago.  Last  Sunday,  says  our  jan- 
itor, who  tells  the  story,  his  new  wife  asked 
him  to  go  to  church  with  her.  "Go  to 
church  wid  you,  chile,"  he  cried ;  "  Bress  de 
Lord,  be'ent  you  got  no  moh  sense  ob  de 
propri'ties  dan  to  think dat  I'd  goto  church 
wid  annuder  woman  so  soon  after  de  death 
ob  my  wife?" 

It  is  nearly  midnight  and  I  must  close, 
for  at  twelve  the  art  class  meets  at  Soldiers 
Field  to  go  and  paint  the  John  Harvard 
statue. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

PIERREPONT  GRAHAM. 

P.S.  I  wired  you  to-day  for  $50.  I 
couldn't  explain  by  telegraph,  but  the  fact 
is  it  cost  me  that  sum  to  keep  your  name 
out  of  the  police  court  records. 


LETTER   NO.   III. 


LETTER  No.  III. 

Pierrepont,  about  to  forsake  Harvard,   supplies 
his  father  with  some  reasons  for  agree- 
ing with  him  that  a  post-graduate 
course  is  not  advisable. 

CAMBEIDGB,  June  4,  189 — 
My  Dear  Father  : 

No,  you  certainly  need  not  get  out  a  meat 
ax  to  elaborate  your  arguments  against  my 
taking  a  post-graduate  course.  What  you 
have  already  said  makes  me  feel  as  if  a 
ham  had  fallen  on  me  from  the  top  of 
Pillsbury's  grain  elevator.  There  I  go 
again  with  my  similes  derived  from  trade ! 
It's  exasperating  how  home  associations 
will  cling  to  a  fellow  even  after  four  years 
of  college  life !  But  it's  worse  when  these 
stock-yard  phrases  bulge  out  in  polite  con- 
versation. It's  a  case  of  head-on  collision 
with  your  pride,  when  you  are  doing  your 
very  neatest  to  impress  some  sugar-cured 
beauty  that  you  are  the  flower  of  the  flock, 
to  make  a  break  like  a  Texas  steer.  The 


34  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

social  circle  was  pretending  to  tell  ages  the 
other  night.  When  it  came  my  next,  a 
pert  little  run-about,  in  a  cherry  waist  and 
a  pair  of  French  shoes  that  must  have 
come  down  to  her  from  the  original  Cin- 
derella, spoke  up. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Graham,  how  old  are 
you?" 

"  I  was  established  in  187-"  I  said,  with 
one  of  my  fervid  I'11-meet-you-in-the-con- 
servatory-after-the-next-dance  glances.  But 
I  never  added  the  odd  figure.  Everybody 
laughed.  Fortunately  they  thought  I  in- 
tended a  joke.  I'll  bet  you  a  new  hat  —  if 
you  are  still  sporting  your  old  friend  you 
need  one  —  that  you  couldn't  say  "  born." 
I  caught  the  "  established  "  from  you. 

I  trust  my  education  will  do  all  that  you 
hope  for  my  advancement  in  business.  I've 
read  somewhere  —  perhaps  in  one  of  your 
meaty  letters  —  that  "good  schooling  is 
good  capital."  It  may  be,  but  the  chances 
for  investment  are  pretty  poor  hereabouts. 
Money  is  certainly  more  generally  current. 
It  may  be  the  root  of  all  evil,  but  I've 
noticed  that  it  is  a  root  that  some  very 
good  people  plant  in  the  sunniest  corner  of 
their  intellectual  garden  and  keep  well 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  35 

watered.  While  it  may  not  be  true  that 
every  man  has  his  price,  I  note  that  many 
of  those  who  do  are  ready  to  cut  rates  and 
give  long  time  with  discounts. 

With  your  customary  capacity  for  bang- 
ing the  spike  on  its  topknot,  you  diagnose 
my  future  correctly.  I  admit  that  I'm  "  not 
going  to  be  a  poet  or  a  professor."  Even  the 
Lampoon  rejects  my  verses  —  though  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  if  I  wrote  such  hogwash 
as  your  street-car  ad-smith  grinds  out,  I 
would  never  dare  criticise  Alfred  Austin 
again  —  while  as  for  the  professorial  call- 
ing, there  is  nothing  I  could  possibly  teach 
except  anatomy.  We  have  had  a  splendid 
course  in  that  at  the  various  Boston  am- 
phitheatres, and  the  fellows  say  I'm  way 
up  on  the  subject.  But  I  hardly  think  it 
serious  enough  for  a  life  calling,  so,  as  you 
so  pleasantly  intimate,  I  believe  I  will  ac- 
cept your  offer  to  join  fortunes  with  the 
packing-house.  I  think  I  know  enough 
of  Latin  to  decline  pig  —  and  I  always  do 
when  it's  our  label  —  but  circumstances  of 
a  strictly  pecuniary  nature  make  it  advis- 
able for  me  to  close  with  you  at  once. 
Better  an  eight-dollar  job  and  six  o'clock 
dinner  than  a  post-graduate  course  and  free 


36  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

lunch.  While  I'm  not  prepared  to  admit 
that  my  soul  soars  to  the  azure  at  the 
thought  of  being  a  pork  packer,  perhaps 
it  is  just  as  well.  When  I  was  a  boy  my 
ambition  oscillated  between  keeping  a 
candy  store  and  being  a  hero.  Now  candy 
makes  my  teeth  ache  and  I've  seen  two  or 
three  heroes. 

I  spent  some  time  thinking  what  I  had 
better  do  about  meeting  your  desire  that  I 
desert  literature  for  liver,  but  your  last 
letter  soldered  my  aspirations  into  a  pretty 
small  can.  My  chum  doesn't  like  pork  or 
relish  my  imminent  intimate  connection 
with  it.  Every  day  for  a  month  he's  asked 
me  whether  I  had  decided.  To-day  I  an- 
swered him  with  a  story  that  Deacon  Skin- 
ner used  to  tell  about  a  young  minister  he 
once  knew.  He  was  parson  of  a  small 
country  church  that  paid  a  pretty  skimpy 
salary,  mostly  in  vegetables  his  flock  could 
not  eat  themselves.  There  was  precious 
little  marrying  and  everybody  that  died 
seemed  to  be  on  the  funeral  free  list.  Al- 
together it  was  a  case  of  laboring  in  a  vine- 
yard that  had  gone  to  seed,  and  the  young 
preacher  was  more  often  full  of  inspiration 
than  of  roast  turkey  and  fixin's.  But  an 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  37 

empty  stomach  made  a  clear  head  and  the 
eloquence  of  his  sermons  would  have  given 
Demosthenes  a  hard  run  for  first  money. 

You  can't  always  hide  away  talent  so 
that  it  can't  be  dug  up,  and  one  Sunday 
the  outlook  committee  from  a  fashionable 
church  came  down  to  D  —  and  listened  to 
the  minister.  His  text  that  day  happened 
to  be  one  of  those  which  permit  of  much 
oratory  without  enough  orthodoxy  to  set 
the  soul  into  convulsions.  The  sermon 
made  a  hit  with  a  regulai  Harvard  "  H  " 
and  in  a  day  or  two  the  pastorate  of  the 
Wabash  avenue  church,  whose  steeple  is 
nearer  heaven  than  the  majority  of  the 
congregation  are  likely  to  get,  was  offered 
to  the  young  man,  who  told  the  commit- 
tee that  he  must  weigh  the  matter  care- 
fully. 

The  news  spread  through  the  village  in- 
stantly, as  it  always  does  —  for  any  country 
town  has  Marconi  beat  to  a  custard  on  wire- 
less telegraphy  —  and  on  the  afternoon  of 
the  day  on  which  the  call  to  the  new  field  of 
labor  came,  the  young  minister's  parishion- 
ers inaugurated  a  special  pilgrimage  to  find 
out  the  prospects.  The  first  arrival  was  a 
woman.  (Strange,  isn't  it,  that  for  all  a 


38  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

woman  takes  so  long  to  dress,  she  can  al- 
ways give  a  man  a  killing  handicap  and 
beat  him  from  scratch  to  the  scene  of  a 
scandal  or  a  bargain  sale?)  She  was 
ushered  into  the  parlor  by  the  clergyman's 
little  girl.  No  one  else  seemed  to  be  visi- 
ble. The  Mother  Eve  in  her  wouldn't  let 
the  visitor  wait  long,  so  she  put  the  little 
girl  in  the  quiz  box. 

"  I've  heerd  tell,  Cicely,  that  your  pa's 
been  asked  to  go  to  a  big  church  up  to  the 
city." 

"  Yes'm,"  answered  Cicely,  discreetly. 

"  Well,  child,  tell  me,  hev  you  heerd  him 
say  if  he's  a-goin'  ?  " 

"  No,  mam,  I  haven't." 

"  Nor  your  mother  neither? " 

11  No,  mam." 

"  Waal,  my  dear,  you  must  know  some- 
thin'  abaout  it.  Dew  you  think  he's  a-goin' 
to  leave  us  ? " 

The  child  squirmed  about  uneasily  and 
twisted  her  fingers. 

"Speak  right  out  naow,  that's  a  good 
girl.  Be  he  a-goin'  to  go  or  stay  ?  "  urged 
the  inquisitor. 

"  I  don't  know,  mam,  really.  Papa's  in 
his  study  praying  for  Divine  guidance." 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  39 

"  Where's  your  mother  ?  " 
"  Upstairs  packing  the  trunks." 
I  simply  mention  this  in  a  general  way, 
father,  and  would  note  in  addition  that  in 
the  absence  of  mother  the  janitor  has  helped 
me  do  my  packing.  I  decided  it  was  best 
to  agree  with  you,  for  I  realize  that  it  never 
pays  a  man  to  act  like  a  fool ;  there  are  too 
many  doing  it  as  a  regular  business.  While 
I  should  have  liked  a  post-graduate  course, 
with  an  elective  or  two  from  Radcliffe,  I 
realize  that  the  difference  between  firm  ness 
and  obstinacy  is  that  the  first  is  the  exercise 
of  will  power  and  the  second  of  won't 
power.  Give  me  a  little  vacation  in  Europe 
and  I'll  come  home  and  let  you  can  me  as 
devilled  ham  if  you  want  to. 

I  don't  want  to  brag  about  myself,  but 
I'll  bet  you'll  be  surprised  in  me.  We've 
all  been  cured  of  bragging  by  a  New 
Yorker  in  my  class  who  spends  all  his  spare 
time  proving  why  Gotham  should  be  the 
only  real  splash  on  the  map.  To  hear  him, 
you'd  think  the  good  Lord  moved  the  sun 
up  and  down  simply  to  accommodate  New 
York's  business  hours.  A  fellow  from 
Dublin  who's  here  studying  home  rule 
took  him  down  the  other  day.  Gotham 


4O  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

was  boasting  of  New  York's  high  buildings 
when  Dublin  spoke  up. 

"  Hoigh  ^buildings,  is  it?  Begorra,  we've 
buildings  in  Dublin  so  tall  that  we  have  to 
put  hinges  on  the  four  upper  stories." 

"  What  in  the  world  is  that  for  ?  "  asked 
Gotham. 

"  To  let  the  sun  by  so  it  can  reach  New 
York,  av  coorse." 

By  the  way,  you  say  that  some  men  learn 
all  they  know  from  Life.  If  you  refer  to 
the  New  York  publication,  you  must  have 
met  some  very  gloomy  and  dyspeptic  indi- 
viduals of  late.  I'm  not  of  that  sort,  nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  am  I  bound  up  in  books, 
although,  if  I  do  say  it,  I  have  the  finest 
set  of  the  Decameron  in  college,  and 
am  considered  quite  an  authority  on  the 
poetry  of  Rabelais.  While  on  the  subject 
of  literature,  I  ought  to  state  that  the  extra 
$100  in  this  month's  expense  account  is  for 
initiation  fee  and  dues  in  the  new  Reading 
Club  that  a  lot  of  us  seniors  have  organized. 
We  have  for  our  motto  Lord  Bacon's  great 
phrase  "  Reading  maketh  a  full  man,"  and 
it  is  wonderful  to  see  how  accurately  the 
old  philosopher  hits  our  case.  Owing  to  lack 
of  accommodations  here,  we  usually  meet 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  4! 

in  some  Boston  hotel  where  we  are  safe  from 
interruption.  You  would  laugh  to  see  how 
hot  some  of  the  fellows  get  arguing  fine 
points.  The  other  night  I  become  so  ex- 
ercised myself  discussing  Schenck's  "  The- 
ory of  Straights  "  that  I  walked  plumb  into 
a  pier  glass,  thinking  I  was  up  against 
another  chap.  I  think  the  hotel  man  stuck 
us  on  the  damages,  but  the  Club  chipped  in 
and  paid  like  little  men.  Despite  such  occa- 
sional drawbacks,  the  club  meetings  are 
very  popular.  In  fact,  we  have  full  houses 
every  time  we  get  together. 

Yes,  that  being  elected  president  of  my 
class  was  a  good  thing,  for  at  last  I  can  get 
my  name  on  programmes  and  things  with- 
out any  reference  to  pigs  tacked  to  it.  But 
I  don't  know  as  it  proves  any  overwhelm- 
ing popularity  on  my  part,  for  it  was  a  dull 
season  and  I  just  slid  in.  Of  course  I 
would  have  liked  to  be  marshal,  but  as  I 
hadn't  made  any  home  runs  and  you 
wouldn't  let  me  kick  goals  through  your 
check-book,  I  was  put  on  the  mourners' 
bench  so  far  as  that  ambition  went. 

I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  write  you  the 
cheerful  news  that  I  shall  graduate ;  up  to 
last  week  there  seemed  to  be  considerable 


42  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

doubt  about  it  in  certain  high  quarters  not 
far  removed  from  Prexy's  mansion.  But  I 
went  over  to  see  one  of  the  influential  over- 
seers, a  Boston  Brahmin  with  moss  on  his 
front  steps,  and  plead  with  him.  I  was 
finally  obliged  to  promise  him  that  you 
would  leave  Harvard  $100,000  by  your  will 
if  he  would  see  that  I  graduated.  Of  course 
it's  a  pretty  stiff  price,  but  as  you  won't 
have  to  pay  it  you  ought  not  to  mind. 
Besides,  dad,  think  of  the  pleasure  to  Ma 
and  the  girls  to  have  one  real  Commence- 
ment in  their  lives.  It's  cheap  all  round. 
Your  affectionate  son, 

PlERREPONT. 

P.S.  If  my  dream  comes  out  and  I  get 
a  diploma,  I'll  bring  it  home.  It  may  be 
useful  to  you  as  a  by — product.  It's  sheep- 
skin, you  know. 


LETTER   NO.   IV. 


LETTER  No.  IV. 

From  the   Waldorf-Astoria,  Pierrepont  gives  his 

Bather  some  inside  information  as  to  life 

and  manners  in  New  York  and 

cites  some  experiences. 

WALDORF-ASTORIA,  June  30,  189 — 
My  Dear  Father : 

I  used  to  think  you  had  a  strong  sense  of 
fun,  but  I  am  beginning  to  fear  that  long 
connection  with  such  essentially  un-humor- 
ous  animals  as  hogs  condemned  to  the  guil- 
lotine, has  dulled  it.  I  say  this  because  it 
is  evident  that  you  didn't  take  my  little  joke 
about  wanting  to  go  to  Europe  in  the  spirit 
I  intended.  The  idea  of  suggesting  to  you, 
dear  old  practical  pig-sticker  that  you  are, 
that  Europe  was  in  it  for  a  minute  with  a 
pork-packing  house  as  a  means  of  culture 
seemed  so  irresistibly  comic  to  me  that  I 
thought  you  would  roar  with  laughter  also, 
and  perhaps  put  another  dollar  on  that 
eight  per  I  am  going  to  receive  so  soon. 
I  can  catch  echoes  of  your  roar  even  here, 
but  I  get  no  suggestion  of  cachinnation. 


46  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

Really,  the  laugh  is  on  me  for  attempting 
such  a  feeble  joke.  When  I  get  fairly  into 
the  pork  emporium,  I  shall  confine  my 
witty  sallies  to  Milligan. 

On  the  whole,  and  seriously, I'm  glad  you 
drew  a  red  line  through  my  scheme  of  let- 
ting the  Old  World  see  what  a  pork-pack- 
er's only  looks  like  after  his  bristles  have 
been  scraped  through  college.  Since  I've 
been  at  the  Waldorf-Astoria  I've  seen  so 
many  misguided  results  of  a  few  days  in 
London  that  I  never  want  to  cross  the  duck 
pond.  Montie  Searles,  who  graduated 
when  I  was  a  soph,  was  a  tip-topper  at  Cam- 
bridge, but  he  unfortunately  got  the  ocean 
fever.  I  met  him  in  the  palm  room  last 
night  and  the  way  he  "  deah  boy  "-ed  me 
and  worked  his  monocle  overtime  was 
pitiful.  He's  just  got  back  and  took  the 
fastest  steamer,  for  fear  his  British  dialect 
would  wear  off  before  he  got  a  chance  to 
air  it  on  Broadway.  If  I  should  borrow 
his  clothes  and  come  home  in  'em  you'd 
swap  'em  for  a  straight-jacket.  They  are 
so  English  that  boys  play  tag  with  him  in 
the  streets  waiting  to  see  the  H's  drop,  and 
so  loud  that  every  time  he  goes  out  of  the 
hotel  an  auto  gets  frightened  and  runs 


7 be  Son  in  College. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  47 

away.  After  I  left  him  last  night  I  had  to 
sing  myself  to  sleep  with  "  Hail  Columbia." 

Familiarity  breeds  contempt ;  no  man  is 
a  hero  to  his  own  valet,  and  I'm  afraid  no 
son  is  taken  seriously  by  his  own  father. 
For  instance,  you  draw  a  pretty  strong  in- 
ference that  I've  never  earned  a  dollar, 
which  is  hardly  fair.  I  have  earned  consid- 
erable at  times  as  a  dealer  in  illustrated 
cards,  and  have  picked  up  a  tenner  here 
and  there  by  successfully  predicting  the  re- 
sults of  various  official  speed  tests.  These 
things  require  hard  labor  and  mental  ap- 
plication. But  the  pay  is  sometimes  uncer- 
tain, and  on  the  whole  I  think  your  plan 
for  me  is  better. 

I  told  Searles  about  the  packing-house 
job,  and  he  pooh-poohed  the  idea.  "Ma 
deah  boy,"  he  cried,  "  why  don't  you  be  in- 
dependent? Try  writing  for  money,  old 
chap.  That's  what  you  were  always  doing 
in  college."  I'll  bet  he  read  that  joke  in 
Punch. 

This  is  the  greatest  hotel  in  the  world 
for  one  thing  —  in  it  you  can  meet  a  more 
varied  assortment  of  people  than  under  any 
one  roof  on  earth.  Billionaires  jog  elbows 
with  impecunious  upstarts  who  saunter 


48  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

about  the  hotel  corridors  in  evening  clothes, 
and  live  on  some  cross  street  in  hall-rooms 
way  up  under  the  eaves.  There  is  one  young 
fellow  who  haunts  the  hotel  and  looks  like 
a  swell,  who  is  said  to  be  only  a  few  dress 
shirts  shy  of  being  a  pauper.  But  he  ac- 
tually believes  he's  the  real  thing,  and  the 
story  goes  that  to  keep  up  his  self-deception 
he  goes  home  every  afternoon,  sits  on  his 
trunk  and  toots  a  horn,  after  cleaning  his 
trousers  with  gasoline,  and  thinks  he's^been 
automobiling. 

It's  a  long  shot  that  you  can't  tell  any- 
thing about  a  man  in  New  York  until  you 
find  out  his  business.  He  may  look  like  a 
tramp  and  have  curvature  of  the  spine  from 
carrying  around  certified  checks,  or  he  may 
seem  the  real  thing  in  lords  and  only  have 
a  third  interest  in  an  ash  collecting  indus- 
try. I  had  an  illustration  last  Sunday  of 
how  impossible  it  is  to  judge  a  man's  mo- 
tives until  you  know  his  business.  I  went 
to  church — fact,  I  assure  you.  I  saw  a 
new  style  hat  and  followed  its  wearer  into 
the  sacred  edifice,  as  I  wanted  to  fix  its  de- 
tails in  my  mind  to  tell  mother.  She  —  I 
mean  it  —  was  very  pretty.  On  second 
thought  I  guess  you'd  better  not  mention 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  49 

this  to  mother.  In  the  course  of  his  ser- 
mon the  minister  —  one  of  those  preachers 
who  seem  to  think  it  necessary  to  shout 
out  an  occasional  sentence  to  keep  his  con- 
gregation awake  —  declared  in  stentorian 
tones,  "  Wonders  will  never  cease."  A  fat, 
bald-headed  man  in  front  of  me  nodded  and 
murmured  audibly,  "  Thank  Heaven!"  I 
wondered  and  asked  the  sexton  who  he 
was.  It  appears  that  he  runs  a  dime 
museum  on  Sixth  avenue. 

Here's  a  straight  tip  for  Sis.  If  she 
must  marry  a  title  let  it  be  an  American 
one,  a  Coal  or  Ice  Baron.  Counts  and 
earls  are  thicker  than  sand  fleas  here  and 
about  as  useless  and  annoying. 

Speaking  of  straight  tips,  I've  got  a  sure 
one  on  the  horses  sewed  into  the  lining  of 
my  vest :  If  you  want  to  go  to  the  races 
without  losing  money  don't  take  any  money 
with  you.  The  subject  of  money  reminds 
me  that  your  old  Kansas  friend,  "  Uncle  " 
Seth  Slocum  was  in  town  a  day  or  two  ago. 
With  all  due  respect  to  him  and  his,  you 
must  admit  that  with  his  particularly  flour- 
ishing facial  lawn  he  looks  more  like  a  hay- 
seed than  a  wheat  king.  At  all  events  the 
head  clerk  tipped  off  a  house  detective  to 


5O  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

keep  an  eye  on  him.  They  don't  want  any 
one  robbed  in  the  hotel  —  by  outsiders. 
Seth  hadn't  been  in  town  an  hour,  most  of 
which  he  spent  in  telling  me  how  he  once 
got  you  into  a  corner  on  July  wheat,  when 
he  remembered  that  he  had  an  appointment 
down  town  and  started  out  for  the  L.  I 
went  with  him  as  far  as  the  door,  and  as  I 
stood  there  waiting  for  a  cab,  I  saw  a  burly, 
flashily  dressed  man  step  up  and  grab  Seth 
by  the  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  my  dear  Mr.  Hay- 
maker. How  are  all  the  folks  at  the  Cor- 
ners ? "  he  cried. 

Uncle  Seth  looked  at  him  a  moment  and 
said,  "  Haven't  you  made  a  mistake  ? " 

"  In  the  name,  perhaps,  in  the  face,  no," 
said  the  big  chap,  suavely.  "  Can  it  be  pos- 
sible that  you  are  —  " 

Seth  took  hold  of  the  fellow's  lapel  and 
drew  him  closer  to  him.  "  No,  my  name's 
not  Haymaker  nor  am  I  from  the  Corners. 
Come  closer.  I've  heerd  tell  a  lot  about 
those  bunker  men  and  I  don't  want  any 
one  to  know  my  name,  except  you;  you're 
such  a  likely  chap." 

The  burly  man  laughed  and  inclined  his 
head.  Then,  in  a  stage  whisper  that  could 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  51 

be  heard  a  block,Uncle  Seth  said,  solemnly, 
"Sh,  don't  breathe  it.  I'm  Sherlock  Holmes, 
disguised  as  the  real  thing  in  gold-brick 
targets,  but  don't  give  me  away." 

Uncle  Seth  nearly  started  a  riot  one  day 
at  luncheon.  It  had  been  very  hot  in  the 
morning,  but  the  wind  changed  and  the 
temperature  went  down  rapidly.  Seth  saw 
me  at  a  table  in  the  palm  room  and  came 
over.  "Well,  Ponty,  he  shouted,  in  that 
grain-elevator  voice  of  his,  "  quite  a  tumble, 
wasn't  it?  Dropped  15  points  in  half  an 
hour."  You  ought  to  have  seen  'em.  It 
seemed  as  if  every  one  in  the  room  jumped 
to  his  feet  in  wild  excitement.  You  see 
they  thought  he  was  talking  stocks  instead 
of  thermometer. 

By  the  way,  Uncle  Seth  is  infringing  on 
your  territory.  He's  going  in  for  philos- 
ophy and  gave  me  a  little  advice.  "  If  you 
ever  want  to  build  up  a  big  trade,  Ponty," 
he  said, "  mix  up  a  little  soft  soap  with  your 
business  life.  Flattery  counts.  There's  a 
man  here  in  New  York  who's  made  his 
pile  as  a  barber  because  it  is  his  invariable 
rule  to  ask  every  bald-headed  man  that  he 
shaves  if  he'll  have  a  shampoo." 

I  gather  from  your  statement  that  my 


52  LETTERS   FROM   A  SON 

allowance  dies  a  violent  death  on  July  15, 
that  you  are  very  anxious  to  see  me  on  or 
about  that  date.  You  will.  I  have  no  de- 
sire to  walk  to  Chicago,  and  my  general 
mode  of  life  trends  toward  Pullmans  rather 
than  freight  cars.  Ad  interim,  as  we  used 
to  say  in  our  debating  societies,  I  think  I 
shall  run  down  to  one  of  those  jaw-twisting 
lakes  in  Maine  to  get  some  of  New  York 
soaked  out  of  my  system  before  dropping 
in  on  you.  Billy  Poindexter,  a  classmate 
of  mine,  has  a  camp  there,  and  he  writes  me 
that  hornpouts  are  biting  like  sixty,  and 
mosquitoes  like  seventy.  But  I  don't  mind 
that,  for  I  believe  a  little  blood-letting  will 
do  me  good  after  my  stay  here. 

I  like  New  York,  even  if  it  is  a  bit  com- 
monplace and  straight-laced  compared  with 
Chicago.  They  are  great  on  Sunday  ob- 
servance in  this  town,  and  I  find  I  am 
gathering  a  little  of  the  same  spirit  myself. 
For  instance,  at  an  auditorium  called  the 
Haymarket,  there  is  always  a  devotional 
service  very  early  on  Sunday  mornings.  I 
attended  yesterday,  and  was  much  attracted 
by  the  ceremonies  and  the  music.  You 
would  be  surprised  to  see  the  number  of 
ladies  who  are  willing  to  be  absent  from 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  53 

their  comfortable  homes  at  such  an  incon- 
venient hour. 

Say  what  you  will,  father,  New  York  is 
a  hospitable  place.  Although  an  utter 
stranger,  I  was  invited  the  other  night  to 
the  house  of  Mr.  Canfield,  a  very  wealthy 
gentleman  who  lives  in  great  style.  Mr. 
Canfield  is  well  known  as  a  philosopher 
who  devotes  a  great  deal  of  his  time  to  the 
working  out  of  the  laws  of  chance  and  se- 
quence. Beautiful  experiments  are  made 
at  his  home  every  evening  before  a  number 
of  invited  guests,  among  whom  are  some 
of  the  most  prominent  men  in  the  city.  It 
seems  that  it  is  the  custom  to  have  the 
youngest  and  least  known  guest  contribute 
largely  for  the  evening's  entertainment,  so 
naturally  I  went  pretty  deep  into  my  avail- 
ablefunds.  I  think  I  have  just  about  enough 
to  settle  my  hotel  bill  and  buy  my  transporta- 
tion to  Lake  Moose-something-or-other.  It 
will  be  quite  necessary  that  I  hear  from  you 
at  that  point,  and  to  the  point,  if  you  don't 
want  me  to  become  a  lumberman  or  a 
Maine  guide. 

By  the  way,  I've  been  observant  and  I've 
discovered  something,  though  you'll  doubt- 
less not  credit  it.  I  see  at  last  how  so  many 


54  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

dunderheads  marry  pretty  girls.  Two  of 
them  —  pretty  girls,  not  dunderheads  — 
were  talking  at  the  next  table  to  me  the 
other  day. 

"  So  she's  going  to  marry  Dick  Rogers, 
is  she?"  said  one.  "Poor  thing!  He's 
awfully  flat." 

"  Well,"  replied  her  companion, "  he's  got 
a  steam  yacht,  an  auto,  a  string  of  saddle 
horses  and  his  own  golf  links." 

"  Ah,  I  see,"  murmured  her  companion, 
"  a  flat  with  all  the  modern  improvements." 
Not  bad  for  a  New  York  girl,  is  it? 
Your  affectionate  son, 

P. 

P.  S.  I  met  Colonel  Blough  the  other 
evening  and  he  invited  me  to  sit  in  at  a 
poker  game.  Of  course  I  refused.  He 
was  surprised,  said  he  supposed  it  ran  in 
the  family,  and  related  the  details  of  a  little 
business  transaction  he  and  some  other 
gentlemen  had  with  you  when  you  were 
last  in  New  York.  I  hope  mother  is  well. 
I  am  very  anxious  to  see  her.  I  think 
you'd  be  in  line  for  repute  as  a  philanthro- 
pist if  you  would  send  me  a  check  for  a 
hundred 


LETTER   NO.   V. 


LETTER  No.  V. 

Pierrepont  goes  fishing   and  writes  his  father 

some  of  his  experiences,  not  all  of  which, 

however,  seem  directly  identified 

with  the  piscatorial  art. 

LAKE  MOOSE,  ETC.,  ME.,  July  n,  189 — 

Dear  Dad: 

Here  I  am  in  a  little  hut  by  the  water, 
writing  on  the  bottom  of  a  canned  meat 
box  —  not  our  label,  for  I  gave  Billy  a  bit 
of  wholesome  advice  as  to  packing  foods, 
which  he  accepted  on  the  ground  that 
mine  was  expert  testimony  —  a  tallow  can- 
dle flickering  at  my  side,  and  the  hoarse 
booming  of  bullfrogs  outside  furnishing  an 
obligato  to  my  thoughts.  One  particular 
bullfrog  who  resides  here  can  make  more 
noise  than  any  Texas  steer  that  ever  struck 
Chicago.  It  isn't  always  the  biggest 
animal  that  can  make  the  loudest  rumpus, 
as  I  sometimes  fear  you  think.  I  simply 
mention  this  in  passing  that  you  may  see 
that  all  the  Graham  philosophy  isn't  on 
one  side  of  the  house. 


58  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

As  a  spot  for  rest  this  place  has  even 
Harvard  skinned  to  death.  It  is  so  quiet 
here  —  when  the  frogs  are  out  of  action  — 
that  you  can  hear  the  march  of  time.  Be- 
sides Billy  Poindexter  and  our  guide,  Pete 
Sanderson,  I  don't  believe  there's  another 
human  being  within  a  hundred  miles.  It's 
a  great  change  from  the  Waldorf-Astoria, 
where  you  couldn't  walk  into  the  bar  with- 
out getting  another  man's  breath.  The 
commissary  department  is  different,  too. 
The  canned  goods  Billy  bought  are  as  bad 
as  yours,  dad,  upon  my  soul,  while  as  for 
fish,  there's  nothing  come  to  the  surface 
yet  but  hornpouts,  and  they'll  do  for  just 
about  once. 

We  have  fried  salt  pork  for  a  change  and 
Pete  makes  biscuits  that  would  make  ex- 
cellent adjuncts  to  deep  sea  fishing  tackle. 
Altogether,  this  is  great  preparation  for  the 
packing-house,  for  I  shall  be  so  hungry  by 
July  15  that  I'll  do  anything  to  get  a  square 
meal.  By  the  way,  you  haven't  said  any- 
thing on  the  subject  of  board  —  whether  I 
could  live  at  home  on  a  complimentary 
meal  ticket  or  be  landed  in  a  boarding- 
house  and  made  to  pay.  I  am  going  to 
write  to  Ma  on  this  subject,  for  I  think  she 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  59 

is  a  good  deal  stronger  on  the  fatted  calf 
business  than  you. 

I  think  you  would  like  to  meet  Pete 
Sanderson,  for  he's  a  veteran  of  the  Civil 
War  with  a  pension  for  complete  disability, 
which  he  was  awarded  a  little  while  ago. 
There  isn't  anything  the  matter  with  Pete 
except  a  few  little  scars,  which  he  came  by 
in  a  curious  manner.  It  seems  that  he 
was  examined  by  the  pension  board  down 
at  Bangor  a  few  weeks  back  for  complete 
paralysis.  His  home  doctor  swore  that 
Pete  couldn't  move  nor  feel,  and  two  strap- 
ping sons  brought  him  to  the  office  in  their 
arms. 

The  other  doctors  punched  and  pounded 
him  nearly  to  a  jelly,  but  Pete  never  yipped. 
As  a  last  resort  they  jabbed  him  with  pins 
in  a  dozen  different  places,  yet  he  didn't 
budge.  Complete  paralysis,  they  declared, 
but  they  didn't  know  that  Pete  had  been 
stuffed  so  full  of  opium  that  he  couldn't 
see  nor  feel,  either.  But  he  says  he  helped 
just  as  hard  to  save  the  nation  as  any  one 
else,  and  ought  to  be  recognized.  At  any 
rate  his  case  is  quite  as  worthy  as  that  of 
the  man  who  visited  a  Washington  pension 
agency  and  sought  government  aid  on  the 


6O  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

ground  that  he  had  contracted  gout  from 
high  living,  due  to  his  profits  on  army  con- 
tracts. 

Pete  is  a  great  hand  to  spring  stories  of 
the  war  on  us,  and  some  of  them  are  pretty 
good.  One  he  tells  about  the  chaplain  of 

the Mass.,  when  that  regiment  was 

lying  on  the  Rappahannock  or  Chickahom- 
iny,  or  some  other  river  during  the  summer 
of  '62.  It  seems  that  the  chaplain  was  act- 
ing as  postmaster  for  the  men,  and  had 
been  much  bothered  by  requests  for  the 
mail,  which  had  got  tangled  up  with  the 
Rebs  somewhere.  One  hot  afternoon  he 
allowed  to  himself  that  he'd  like  a  good 
snooze  free  from  interruption,  so  he  affixed 
to  the  front  of  his  tent  a  placard  that  read 
thus: 


CHAPLAIN     DOESN  T      KNOW 

WHEN   THE   MAIL   WILL 

ARRIVE. 


This  worked  like  a  charm,  and  the  rev- 
erend soldier  had  a  fine  sleep  and  came  out 
several  hours  later,  greatly  refreshed  in 
body  and  mind.  He  was  just  a  bit  sur- 
prised to  find  a  row  of  grinning  privates 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  6 1 

sitting  outside  his  canvas  residence,  their 
eyes  fixed  on  his  warning  in  so  noticeable 
a  fashion  that  he  himself  turned  to  look  at 
it.  There,  to  his  horror,  mixed  with  amuse- 
ment—  for  he  was  a  very  human  sort  of 
chaplain — he  found  that  some  wag  had 
got  at  his  card  so  that  it  now  read : 


CHAPLAIN    DOESN  T    KNOW 
WHEN  THE  MAIL  WILL 

ARRIVE,  AND 
DOESN'T  GIVE  A  DAMN. 


I  merely  mention  this  anecdote  as  evi- 
dence that  a  man  cannot  always  be  judged 
by  what  appear  to  be  his  deeds,  as  you 
seem  to  think,  and  that  the  devil  often  gives 
him  a  side  wallop  when  he's  engaged  in 
perfectly  innocent  recreation. 

Thanks  to  your  kind  little  remembrance 
I  shall  be  able  to  be  officially  introduced  to 
Milligan  on  the  isth.  I  note  that,  through 
your  customary  forethought,  the  check  is 
just  sufficient  to  land  me  in  Chicago  with 
eleven  cents  in  my  pocket,  provided  I  prac- 
tice strict  economy  en  route.  Permit  me 
to  compliment  you  on  being  the  most  skill- 
ful promoter  of  labor  any  son  ever  had. 


62  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

I  have  racked  my  brain  in  vain  to  think 
what  I  could  have  said  in  the  letter  of  the 
Fourth  of  July  to  arouse  your  encomiums. 
Your  assertion  that  it  "said  more  to  the 
number  of  words"  than  any  letter  you  ever 
received  from  me  suggests  that  it  was  brief. 
As  it  was  written  on  the  Fourth,  a  day  that, 
as  a  good  American,  I  always  celebrate,  its 
brevity  may  be  accounted  for.  The  same 
explanation,  however,  will  scarcely  answer 
for  the  condensed  power  of  expression  you 
note. 

By  the  way,  Poindexter  isn't  going  to 
marry  old  Conway's  widow,  spite  her  mil- 
lions. I  quizzed  him  about  it  and  he  finally 
put  me  wise.  "  Yes,  I  could  have  married 
her,"  he  said.  "  In  fact,  we  agreed,  but  I 
squirmed  out  of  it.  The  truth  is  I  pro- 
posed by  mail  —  I  didn't  have  the  nerve  to 
do  it  face  to  face  —  and  she  accepted  me 
on  a  postal  card.  Her  evident  economy 
was  a  bit  too  much  for  me." 

I've  done  a  lot  of  thinking  (this  word  is 
not  written  very  plainly,  but  it  is  thinking 
and  nothing  else)  since  I  have  been  in  the 
woods.  Billy  says  I  only  think  I'm  think- 
ing, but  he's  a  cynic.  There's  been  little 
to  do  but  think.  The  hunting  is  worse 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  63 

than  the  fishing  and  the  only  thing  I've 
bagged  is  my  trousers.  The  sum  total  of 
my  thoughts  seems  to  be  a  few  resolutions. 
Although  I  know  resolutions  are  not  ripe 
till  Jan.  i,  I've  had  time  to  make  them  here 
and  I'll  have  plenty  of  chance  to  get  accus- 
tomed to  them  before  I  write  them  down 
in  the  Russia  leather  diary  that  I  know 
you  will  be  glad  to  include  among  my 
Christmas  gifts. 

My  resolutions  may  not  be  original,  they 
may  not  even  be  good  ones,  but  such  as 
they  are  I  am  going  to  write  them  out  for 
you,  for  you  have  often  told  me  that  it  was 
every  man's  duty  to  himself  to  set  himself 
a  goal  and  mark  out  the  course  by  which 
to  reach  it.  For  this  and  a  perfect  wealth 
of  other  advice  I  can  never  thank  you 
enough.  Perhaps,  however,  the  knowledge 
that  I  am  really  taking  life  seriously,  as 
shown  by  my  resolutions,  will  be  some  re- 
compense to  you  for  the  midnight  oil  you 
have  burned  in  the  coinage  of  succinct 
sayings  and  meaty  metaphors.  (I  flatter 
myself  that  is  pretty  well  expressed,  al- 
though my  English  professor  would  object, 
as  he  often  did,  to  my  employment  of  trade 
terms  as  illustrations  and  similes.) 


64  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

The  stain  on  this  sheet  of  paper  is  due 
to  Poindexter,  who  shied  a  slice  of  fat  pork 
at  my  head  while  I  was  writing.  That  was 
yesterday  and  he  absolutely  refused  to  let 
me  finish  my  letter.  He  said  a  man  who 
couldn't  find  anything  better  to  do  in  the 
woods  than  write  was  several  unpleasant 
sounding  things.  As  he  emphasized  his 
remarks  by  war-whoops,  Comanche  dances 
and  the  beating  together  of  tin  plates,  I  was 
forced  to  forsake  my  literary  pursuits  till 
this  morning.  Billy  is  asleep.  He  abso- 
lutely refused  to  rise  without  a  pick-me-up 
and,  as  our  canoe  was  upset  last  night,  we 
lost  all  our  camp  utensils,  including  that 
indispensable  adjunct  to  camp  life,  the 
pick-me-up. 

Billy  is  up  and  insists  that  we  must  go 
to  the  nearest  settlement  for  a  new  camp 
kit.  He  misses  the  splendid  assortment  of 
pick-me-ups  with  which  we  started  out  and 
swears  he  won't  know  north  from  south  till 
he  gets  one.  The  resolutions  will  have  to 
wait  till  we  return. 

July  13. 

We  did  not  get  back  till  to-day.  We 
found  a  fine  collection  of  camp  necessities 
at  the  settlement  and  what  we  selected 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  65 

proved  such  a  heavy  burden  that  we  were 
unable  to  start  on  the  return  trip  till  this 
morning.  Billy  is  asleep  again.  I  never 
knew  he  was  such  a  heavy  sleeper.  It  must 
be  the  bracing  air  of  the  woods.  In  Cam- 
bridge he  had  the  reputation  of  never 
sleeping. 

I  have  re-read  the  resolutions  and  I  think 
it  best  not  to  send  them  to  you  until  I  am 
out  of  the  woods.  Surveyed  in  the  light 
of  this  particular  morning  they  seem  to 
need  as  many  amendments  as  the  Consti- 
tution of  the  United  States. 

Just  a  word  of  warning  not  to  be  sur- 
prised when  I  show  up  for  work  in  hunting 
costume.  I  was  compelled  to  leave  all  my 
other  clothes  in  New  York  for  safe  keeping. 
Storage  rates  are  very  high  there;  the 
tickets  call  for  a  payment  of  $150.  I  shall 
call  at  the  Waldorf  on  my  way  through  the 
city  and  shall  get  any  letters — with  enclo- 
sures —  that  may  be  there. 

Your  hopeful  son, 

P. 

P.S.  Do  you  think  that  when  a  man 
finds  he  is  catching  two  fish  on  one  hook 
every  time  he  hauls  in  his  line  it  is  time  for 
him  to  stop  using  bait  ?  Billy  assures  me 
that  it  is. 


LETTER   NO.    VI. 


LETTER  No.  VI. 

The  seat  at  his  father's  mailing  desk  does  not 

appear  especially  comfortable  to  the  Junior 

Graham,  if  we  may  judge   by  the 

tone  of  his  correspondence. 

CHICAGO,  Aug.  30, 189 — 
My  Dear  Father : 

Permit  me  to  say,  most  respectfully  of 
course,  that  you  are  overdoing  the  emotional 
business  as  to  my  mistake  in  mailing  a  note 
of  invitation  to  the  theatre  to  Jim  Donnelly 
in  place  of  a  letter  denying  his  claim  of 
shortage  on  hams,  and  denouncing  him  as  a 
double-distilled  prevaricator  for  venturing 
the  same.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was  a  great 
stroke,  and  I've  ordered  the  cashier  in  your 
name  to  put  a  two-dollar  ell  on  my  financial 
structure.  Donnelly  came  in  to-day  and 
gave  us  a  thousand-dollar  order  for  short 
ribs ;  said  he  was  devilish  glad  to  find  a  bit 
of  humanity  and  sentiment  in  the  house  of 
Graham,  and  that  if  you  had  more  blood 
and  less  lard  in  your  veins,  Chicago  would 
be  a  better  place  to  live  in.  He's  fond  of 


70  LETTERS   FROM   A  SON 

the  old  burgh,  at  that,  for  he  licked  a  Bos- 
ton drummer  last  week  for  claiming  that 
the  Boston  Symphony  Orchestra  was  bet- 
ter than  Theodore  Thomas'.  You  see  Jim 
has  just  become  engaged  and  my  little 
break  struck  him  in  a  tender  spot. 

I  note  with  pain,  dear  dad,  that  you 
make  a  great  hullabaloo  over  my  robbing 
you  of  your  time  by  writing  that  note. 
Theoretically  you  may  be  right,  but  prac- 
tically your  kick  is  so  small  that  a  respect- 
able jack-rabbit  would  be  ashamed  of  it. 
Let's  see;  I  work  —  theoretically — from 
8  to  6,  one  hour  out  for  lunch.  Under  your 
munificent  system  of  payment  I  get  about 
15  cents  an  hour,  or  a  quarter  of  a  cent  a 
minute.  It  took  me  two  minutes  to  write 
the  note.  Ergo,  I  owe  you  half  a  cent, 
whereas  you  owe  me  the  profit  on  the 
thousand-dollar  order  of  short  ribs,  which 
Donnelly  says  must  be  something  im- 
mense. Let's  square  up  on  that  basis. 

But  even  had  results  been  worse,  absent- 
mindedness  is  a  fault,  not  a  crime.  Litera- 
ture is  full  of  well-authenticated  instances 
of  that  perversity  of  wit  which  makes  one 
do  the  wrong  thing  instead  of  the  much 
easier  right  one.  The  poet  Cowper's  feat 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE    FATHER.  71 

of  boiling  his  watch  while  he  timed  it  by 
an  egg  is  really  a  very  commonplace  illus- 
tration of  the  vagaries  of  the  human  mind. 

It  was  surpassed  by  Dean  Stanley  and 
Dr.  Jowett,  who  were  both  extremely  ab- 
sent-minded and  very  fond  of  tea.  One 
morning  they  breakfasted  together  and  in 
their  chat  each  of  them  drank  seven  or 
eight  cups  of  tea.  As  the  session  broke 
up,  Dr.  Jowett  happened  to  glance  at  the 
table.  "  Good  gracious! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I 
forgot  to  put  in  the  tea."  Neither  had  no- 
ticed it. 

Even  this,  I  think,  is  excelled  by  the  case 
of  a  remarkably  absent-minded  man  in  the 
western  part  of  Massachusetts,  whose  freaks 
of  memory  made  him  the  sport  of  the  coun- 
try for  miles  around.  He  once  went  for  days 
without  sleeping  because  he  was  very  busy 
in  his  library  and  didn't  leave  it,  so  did  not 
see  his  bed  as  a  reminder.  He  capped  the 
climax,  however,  when  he  came  home  one 
night  and  hanged  himself  to  the  bed-post 
by  his  suspenders.  As  he  was  wealthy  and 
cheerful,  with  much  to  live  for,  it  is  gener- 
ally believed  that  he  mistook  himself  for 
his  own  pants.  At  all  events  absent-mind- 
edness, like  bad  penmanship,  is  a  sign  of 


72  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

genius,  and,  as  a  loving  father,  you  should 
be  glad  that  I  have  one  of  the  symptoms. 

I  must  frankly  admit  that  the  addressing 
of  envelopes  is  not  the  most  fascinating  of 
pursuits.  If  I  must  write  in  order  to  earn 
my  salary  from  the  house,  I  should  much 
prefer  to  do  it  across  the  bottom  of  checks. 
I  would  then  feel  that  the  business  was 
more  dependent  upon  me  and  also  that  it 
might  mean  more  to  me.  It  has  got  so 
that  the  sight  of  a  U.  S.  stamp  after  busi- 
ness hours  gives  me  a  bilious  attack.  Let 
me  at  least  fill  out  the  checks  if  I  don't  sign 
'em.  Then  I'll  be  better  able  to  imagine 
that  I'm  the  real  thing  around  here,  even  if 
my  salary's  attenuation  continues  to  eat  a 
big  hole  in  my  sainted  mother's  pin  money. 
The  next  best  thing  to  owning  an  auto,  you 
know,  is  to  wear  an  auto  coat. 

Of  course  Milligan  made  a  noisy,  bray- 
ing, Hibernian  ass  of  himself  when  he 
came  around  to  take  your  cussing  of  him 
out  on  me.  He  swore  and  danced  and 
waved  his  arms,  and  got  still  madder  when 
I  asked  him  what  he  was  Donnybrooking 
around  in  Chicago  for.  He  didn't  seem  to 
like  it  a  bit  when  I  told  him  that  one  little 
finger  of  the  girl  I  wrote  to,  was  worth  a 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  73 

thousand  times  as  much  as  himself  and  the 
hogs  he  associated  with,  put  together.  He 
allowed  that  I  was  an  impudent  young 
jackass  and  the  dead  copy  of  my  father ; 
went  on  to  say  that  if  he  hadn't  started  the 
firm  and  kept  his  weather-eye  on  it  ever 
since,  you  would  have  been  in  the  bank- 
ruptcy court  or  jail  years  ago.  When  I 
got  mad  and  told  him  that  I'd  have  him 
bounced,  he  said  you  didn't  dare  to  fire  him 
because  he  knew  the  secret  of — but  really 
I  don't  think  it  safe  to  entrust  it  to  paper. 

Milligan  is  a  dirty  beast  who  belongs  to 
the  Shy-of- Water  tribe  and  smokes  a  hor- 
ror of  a  clay  pipe.  To  think  that  I,  who 
have  mingled  with  gentlemen  for  the  past 
four  years,  should  be  compelled  to  breathe 
his  air  is  too  much.  I  won't  work  under  a 
man  who  habitually  insults  my  honored 
father.  If  you  haven't  pride  enough  to 
rebel,  I  have.  He  is  vulgar  enough  to  call 
you  the  "ould  man,"  and  I  am  morally 
certain  he  is  a  pretty  liberal  toucher  of  that 
private  stock  you  keep  in  your  inner  office. 
For  heaven's  sake,  throw  him  out  and 
purify  the  place. 

Jim  Donnelly  seems  to  have  taken  quite 
a  shine  to  me,  and  last  night  he  invited  me 


74  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

to  his  club  for  dinner.  This  was  a  great 
relief  for  yours  truly,  for  between  you  and 
me,  Ma  has  got  pretty  stingy  with  the. table 
since  you  left,  and  is  trying  to  use  up  a 
box  of  our  products  she  found  down  cellar. 
(By  the  way,  I  notice  from  a  slip  Milligan 
gave  me  to  file  to-day,  that  you  crossed 
off  all  the  Graham  foods  the  steward  of 
your  private  car  had  picked  out  for  your 
trip  —  wise  old  dad!)  So  Jim's  invite 
was  like  an  early  cocktail  to  Col.  R.  E. 
Morse.  After  dinner  we  hied  ourselves  to 
a  vaudeville  show,  which  I  simply  mention 
in  a  business  way.  I  see  you've  an  "  ad  "  on 
the  drop  curtain  at  the  Hyperion,  and  if 
you  won't  kill  the  poet  who  wrote  those 
verses,  I  must.  Such  awful  rot  as: 
"  We  corrall  the  choicest  hogs, 

Stab  'em,  scald  'em,  flay  'em ; 
Then  you  get  the  superfine 

Sausage  made  by  Graham," 

may  appeal  to  you  as  Ai  inspiration,  but 
trust  an  humble  member  of  your  family  when 
he  says  that  you  simply  nauseate  the  pub- 
lic by  such  tomfool  stuff.  You're  rich 
enough  to  hire  Howells  if  you  like,  so 
there's  no  excuse  for  this. 
Wish  I  was  with  you  on  the  car  instead 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  75 

of  being  compelled  to  hear  Milligan  blart 
about  "our  house"  like  an  Irish  Silas 
Wegg.  They  say  around  the  office  that  the 
car  is  bully  well  stocked  with  things  and 
things,  and  they  even  hint  that  you  have 
been  taking  to  it  pretty  regular  of  late  to 
change  climates  with  Ma.  I  don't  encour- 
age such  idle  talk. 

I've  worried  a  lot  since  you  went  away. 
The  business  seems  to  have  got  on  my 
nerves.  Of  course  I  realize  that  all  I  have 
to  do  is  to  lick  stamps  and  try  to  look  as  if 
I  enjoyed  it,  but  as  the  family  heir  I  can't 
help  worrying  about  the  firm.  Several 
matters  have  come  to  my  attention,  in  the 
way  of  business,  that  make  me  fearful  that 
perhaps  you  made  a  mistake  in  going  away 
without  leaving  one  of  the  family  at  the 
helm  here.  The  Celtic  gentleman  who  signs 
himself  "  Supt."  and  whom  the  boys  call 
"  Soup,"  does  not  take  kindly  to  my  advice. 
When  I  told  him  yesterday  that  I  feared 
that  a  carload  of  lard  that  was  shipped  to 
Indiana  was  not  first  chop  and  would  be 
returned,  he  looked  me  over  curiously  for 
a  minute  and  said : 

"  Don't  let  that  worry  ye,  me  bye ;  the 
toime  to  fret  is  when  they  sind  it  back." 


76  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

And  then,  in  a  very  loud  voice,  so  that 
everybody  in  the  office  could  hear,  he  told 
me  a  story. 

"Your  anticipation  av  trouble  reminds 
me,"  he  said,  "  av  an  ould  maid  up  in  York 
state  twirtty  years  ago.  She  was  so  plaguey 
homely  that  if  she'd  been  the  lasht  woman 
on  earth  the  lasht  man  wud  a  jumped  off  it 
whin  he  met  her.  Arethusa  Prudence 
Smylie  —  I've  niver  forgot  the  name,  how 
cud  I  ?  —  was  as  full  av  imagination  as  a 
Welsh  rarebit  is  av  nightmare,  and  ye  niver 
cud  tell  phwat  her  nixt  break  wud  be. 
She  was  sittin'  in  the  kitchen  one  winter's 
day,  radin'  po'try  and  toastin'  her  fate  in 
the  open  oven  door,  while  her  good  ould 
slob  av  a  mother  was  rollin'  out  pie  crust, 
whin  all  av  a  suddint  she  burst  out  cryin'. 
This  startled  her  mother  so  that  she 
dropped  her  rollin'  pin  and  rushed  to  her 
daughter's  side.  She  thought  she'd  had  a 
warnin'  or  cramps  or  somethin.'  It  was  a 
long  toime  before  she  cud  squeeze  a  worrd 
out  edgewise  bechune  the  wapes. 

'  Phwat  is  the  matter  ? '  she  cried,  agin 
and  agin.  Finally,  wid  the  tears  a  streamin' 
down  her  chakes  an'  the  sobs  wrestlin  wid 
her  breath,  Arathusa  tuk  her  mother  into 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  77 

her  confidence.  '  I  was  sittin'  here,  radin',' 
she  said, '  whin  the  po'try  suggisted  some- 
thin'  to  me  an'  thin  I  got  to  thinkin','  and 
here  her  gab  trolley  was  trun  off  by  sobs. 

"  '  Thinkin'  of  phwat,  darlint  ? '  cried  her 
mother. 

"Oh,  mother,  I  was  thinkin',  as  I  sot 
here  wid  my  feet  in  the  open  oven  door, 
that  if  I  should  get  married  and  a  little 
baby  should  come  and  —  and  — '  Agin  she 
stopped  to  put  on  brakes  wid  her  handker- 
chief, and  thin  wint  on  rapidly,  '  I  was 
thinkin'  how  terrible  it  would  be  if  I  should 
git  married  and  should  leave  the  baby  here 
in  the  kitchin'  and  go  out  and  —  and  it 
should  crawl  into  the  oven'  an'  you  should 
shut  it  up  wid  the  pies  and — and  —  boo- 
hoo,hoo!'" 

The  point  of  this  yarn  appeared  clear 
enough  to  the  boys  in  the  office,  for  they 
laughed  like  hyenas  and  looked  at  me  as  if 
I  were  the  latest  thing  in  tailor-mades. 
Strange  how  everybody  knows  when  to 
laugh  when  the  boss  makes  a  joke !  This 
morning  one  of  the  boys  had  the  nerve  to 
call  me  Arethusa.  When  I  got  through 
with  him,  in  the  vacant  lot  back  of  the  hog 
pens,  he  couldn't  have  said  "  Arethusa  "  to 


78  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

save  his  life-  You  will  commend  this,  I 
know,  for  the  dignity  of  the  family  name 
must  be  upheld.  I  found  long  ago  that  in 
order  to  maintain  the  respect  of  the  world 
it  is  sometimes  necessary  to  give  it  a  few 
drop  kicks. 

I  am  disappointed  in  Milligan.  Until 
recently  I  thought  he  really  felt  an  interest 
in  me.  For  instance,  a  day  or  two  ago  he 
expressed  surprise  that  you  had  not  estab- 
lished me  in  the  real  estate  business,  and 
said  that  it  struck  him  that  I  was  better 
suited  for  it  than  for  the  coarse  details  of 
pork-packing.  After  that  I  went  round 
like  a  pouter  pigeon.  But  I  have  since 
learned  that  he  followed  his  remark  about 
the  real  estate  business  with  a  side  speech 
to  one  of  the  clerks :  "  He  certainly  knows 
more  about  the  real  estate  business  than 
he  is  likely  to  ever  learn  of  this.  He  can 
tell  the  difference  between  a  house  and  lot." 

Milligan  is  so  full  of  jokes  that  it's  safe 
betting  that  if  he  had  the  shaking  up  I'd 
like  to  give  him  he'd  shed  comic  operas, 
end-men's  gags  and  "side-walk  conversa- 
tion" enough  to  keep  the  show  business 
running  for  years  to  come.  Do  you  won- 
der that  I  have  written  you  several  letters 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  79 

demanding  his  resignation  or  acceptance 
of  my  own  ?  You  will  not  receive  any  of 
those  letters,  however,  for  home,  although 
humble,  is  a  place  of  shelter.  I  must  say, 
though,  that  Milligan's  penchant  for  pre- 
senting the  naked  truth  without  even  the 
traditional  fig  leaf  is  annoying. 

Your  chafing  son, 

PlERREPONT. 

P.S.  I  have  just  learned  that  Milligan 
is  at  home,  sick.  I  wish  him  well,  of  course, 
but  if  he  should  find  a  change  of  climate 
necessary  I  will  gladly  hunt  up  the  time- 
tables for  him. 


LETTER   NO.   VII. 


LETTER  No.  VII. 

Pierrepont  writes  of  ' '  independent  work  for  the 
house ' '  and  its  results;  of  the  methods  of 
" guide-books-to-success  "    philoso- 
phers, and  of  divers  other  topics. 

CHICAGO,  Sept.  10, 189 — 
Dear  Father: 

What  a  clever,  indulgent,  far-seeing  old 
boy  you  are,  to  be  sure.  Your  ultimatum 
that  I  must  continue  to  be  subject  to  Milli- 
gan  sounds  harsh  at  first  reading,  but  I  see 
your  motive.  You  think  by  keeping  me 
under  him  for  a  while  I  shall  work  like  a 
fiend  to  get  promotion,  and  thus  escape 
his  Celtic  cussedness.  I  shall.  No  greater 
incentive  to  rise  was  ever  offered  a  poor 
young  man.  In  fact,  you  couldn't  keep  me 
down  with  Mike  if  you  gave  me  ten  thou- 
s'and  a  year.  My  lacerated  feelings  are 
worth  much  more  than  that- 

Ma  is  a  pretty  good  Samaritan  these 
days.  I  told  her  that  Milligan  was  my  bete 
noir,  and  she  said  it  was  a  mean  shame  for 
a  grandson  of  her  father  to  have  to  affiliate 


84  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

with  such  an  animal.  Her  sympathy  cost 
her  ten,  but  I  feel  that  it  was  worth  that  to 
have  her  wellsprings  of  emotion  tapped 
once  more. 

I  see  the  logic  of  what  you  said  in  your 
last.  True  it  is  that  if  it  isn't  a  Milligan 
over  us,  it's  some  one  else  —  I  won't  say 
worse,  for  that  would  be  lying.  I  have 
Mike,  Mike  has  you,  you  have  Ma,  and  Ma 
has  Mrs.  Grundy.  We  are  all  travelling 
over  the  ocean  of  life  in  the  same  boat,  but 
I'm  hanged  if  I  would'nt  prefer  to  be  in 
the  first  cabin  drinking  champagne,  than 
down  in  the  stoke-hole  sweating  like  a 
galley  slave. 

I  am  sincerely  glad  you  are  coming 
home.  The  old  adage  about  the  mice 
playing  when  the  cat's  away  is  away  off. 
Since  you've  been  gone,  except  for  the  half 
day  that  your  Brian  Boru-descended  super 
was  sick,  I've  not  even  had  time  enough 
in  office  hours  to  devote  an  occasional  few 
moments'  thought  to  how  I  will  improve 
methods  here  when  you  elect  to  add  "re- 
tired" to  your  recital  of  personal  facts  for 
the  city  directory.  The  way  Milligan  keeps 
me  jumping  would  have  pinned  all  the 
Mott  Haven  medals  on  me,  had  his  system 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  85 

of  training  been  adopted  in  Harvard  ath- 
letics. I've  lost  seven  pounds  in  three 
weeks,  and  if  this  thing  keeps  on  I'll  be  so 
far  under  weight  that  I'll  be  sent  out  to 
pasture  or  to  the  boneyard. 

I  used  to  think  Milligan  a  well-balanced 
man,  but  I  was  wrong, —  no  man  whose 
lungs  are  so  out  of  proportion  to  his  brains 
can  be.  I'm  getting  used  to  being  bossed, 
but  I  shall  never  be  broke  to  being  roared 
at  in  the  fashion  of  the  Bull  of  Bashan.  I 
don't  object  to  being  told  that  it  is  neces- 
sary to  have  a  state  as  a  component  part 
of  the  superscription  on  a  letter, —  but  is  it 
essential  to  the  business  code  that  the 
people  in  East  Saginaw  should  have  full 
particulars  of  my  dereliction  shouted  at 
them? 

Milligan  takes  especial  delight  in  intro- 
ducing me  to  all  the  visitors  who  inspect 
the  works,  but  never  by  any  chance  does 
he  tell  who  I  am.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  "This 
is  our  new  mailing  clerk:  he  is  just  from 
Harvard,"  is  the  neat  way  he  puts  it.  And 
then  they  look  me  over  and  say,  "Har- 
vard? Oh,  indeed!"  and  the  look  passed 
out  with  it  —  you'd  think  I  was  a  new  line 
of  prize  pig.  I've  come  to  believe  that  I'm 


86  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

under  suspicion  here  in  Chicago ;  and  I've 
locked  up  all  my  college  pins  and  insignia 
in  a  closet  down  cellar,  and  couldn't  be 
roped  into  confession  of  my  alma  mater 
with  a  lariat.  Education  is  evidently  not 
a  thing  to  brag  of  in  Chicago. 

I  can't  quite  get  on  to  what  it  is,  but 
Milligan  is  up  to  some  game.  He's  very 
chummy  with  the  visitors  and  insists  upon 
showing  them  about  himself.  An  English 
lord  who  was  here  the  other  day,  chatted 
with  him  for  fully  half  an  hour  in  your 
private  office.  Think  of  it  —  in  your  pri- 
vate office.  I  shall  have  it  deodorized 
before  you  return.  As  usual,  Milligan 
boasted  and,  as  the  door  was  open,  we  all 
heard.  Something  was  said  of  the  Irish 
land  bill,  and  this  opened  the  throttle  of 
the  super's  conversation. 

"  It's  no  more  than  roight  to  do  some- 
thin'  for  Ireland.  Who  won  the  Boer  War 
for  ye  ?  Kitchener,  Lord  Roberts, —  both 
Irish." 

"Really,  you  don't  tell  me?"  drawled  his 
lordship.  ''And  were  all  our  great  fighters 
Irishmen  ?  Was  —  was  Wellington  ? " 

"  Certainly,"  said  Milligan. 

"  And  Nelson  ?  " 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  87 

"Shure.  All  great  fightin'  min  were 
Irish." 

"How  about  Alexander?"  asked  the 
Englishman. 

"  Celtic,  for  shure." 

"  So  ?  And  say  now,  how  about  —  well, 
Balaam  ?  "  lisped  the  peer. 

"  Irish,"  cried  Milligan,  Irish  to  the  back- 
bone. But  —  an'  I  asks  ye  to  note  this, 
your  lordship  —  but  the  ass  was  English." 

"  I  hate  Milligan,  but  I  love  a  joke,  and 
I  joined  in  the  laugh  that  went  up.  Then 
I  heard  his  lordship  pipe  up,  "  How  de- 
lightful, don't  yer  know,  that  your  clarks 
are  so  merry.  I  do  wonder  what  they  are 
laughing  at." 

Just  then  he  toddled  out  and  surveyed 
us  through  his  monocle.  As  Milligan 
joined  him  he  turned  to  him  and  said: 
"  So  Balaam  was  Irish,  too,  Mr.  Milligan  ? 
But  I  really  didn't  know  the  ass  was  a 
native  animal  in  my  country." 

Milligan  certainly  possesses  self-control. 
He  was  as  grave  as  a  government  inspector 
opening  a  Graham  tin  can  as  he  replied, 
"  Those  laugh  best  who  laugh  last,  your 
lordship." 

By  the  way,  there  was  a  little  excitement 


88  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

in  the  packing  house  yesterday  which  you 
may  hear  of  in  some  other  way.  I'll  tell 
you  the  straight  facts.  I  happened  to  be 
over  in  the  refining  house  during  the  noon 
hour,  to  get  some  butterine  for  a  sandwich, 
when  a  fellow  with  some  sort  of  monkey 
togs  blew  in  and  acted  in  a  very  suspicious 
manner.  He  nosed  around  into  the  vats, 
poked  a  queer  glass  machine  plumb  through 
a  keg  of  butterine,  broke  open  some  tins  and 
raised  particular  Ned  in  the  olive  oil  de- 
partment. When  he  started  to  put  some 
stuff  in  his  pockets,  I  remembered  your 
oft-repeated  injunctions  to  occasionally  do 
some  independent  work  for  the  house — to 
get  out  of  the  ruts,  as  it  were — and  I  came 
an  old-time  Soldier's  Field  tackle  on  his  jig- 
lets  which  resulted  in  his  complete  disap- 
pearance from  the  interior  of  the  plant,  and 
a  compound  fracture  of  the  left  shoulder- 
blade  where  he  landed  on  the  cobblestones 
of  the  yard.  He  cursed  me  as  he  was 
being  carried  away  on  a  stretcher,  and  said 
the  concern  would  hear  from  him  to  its 
sorrow. 

I  understand  he's  a  government  in- 
spector,  but  I  rely  on  your  little  way  of 
settling  such  things.  However,  I  think  it 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  89 

would  be  just  as  well  that  you  cut  your 
expedition  in  two  and  get  around  here  by 
the  time  the  plot  thickens.  If  you  don't 
care  to  go  home  so  much  sooner  than  you 
intended,  you  can  live  in  the  private  car 
right  here  in  the  railroad  yard,  and  I  won't 
let  Ma  next.  You  would  enjoy  the  sur- 
roundings immensely.  Think  of  being 
lulled  to  sleep  by  the  squealing  of  your 
own  hogs  and  awakened  in  the  morning 
by  the  music  of  Texas  steers  that  are 
going  into  Graham  cans. 

Billy  Poindexter  is  here  for  a  day  or  two 
on  a  little  trip  from  New  York.  He  cut 
up  horribly  when  I  told  him  I  couldn't  get 
out  to  air  myself  all  day  long.  But  I 
pointed  out  to  him  that  I  was  in  training 
to  carry  Graham  &  Co.  around  on  my 
shoulders  one  of  these  days,  and  he  ad- 
mitted that  it  looked  like  a  good  game  to 
follow.  I  showed  him  one  or  two  of  your 
letters,  and  he  said  they  were  too  clever  for 
a  pork-packer  and  too  greasy  for  a  philoso- 
pher. Asked  if  you  weren't  over-doing  the 
"  Beyond-the-Alps-lies-Italy "  business  a 
trifle,  and  allowed  that  too  much  watering 
has  killed  many  a  promising  plant.  How- 
ever, I  don't  believe  water  will  be  the  death 


QO  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

of  me.  Billy  says  my  occupation  would 
drive  him  to  drink,  but  I  guess  he  isn't  on 
to  my  salary  or  else  doesn't  know  the  price 
of  cabs  out  here.  Besides,  he  doesn't  need 
driving. 

Billy  has  developed  quite  a  philosophical 
streak  lately.  I  guess  the  girl  he  really 
wanted  for  better  or  worse  decided  it  a 
long  shot  for  worse  and  scratched  Billy  in 
the  running.  I  taxed  him  with  it. 

"Young  man,"  said  he — he's  only  four- 
teen months  older  than  I,  but  how  he  does 
swell  up  over  it  —  "  Young  man,  the  pur- 
suit of  a  girl  is  like  running  after  a  street 
car  and  missing  it.  You're  never  quite 
sure  that  it  was  the  right  car,  after  all." 

That's  all  I  could  coax  out  of  him,  but  I 
guess  he  got  the  stuffed  glove  all  right. 
The  other  night,  after  we  had  spent  several 
hours  in  the  Palmer  House  examining 
some  very  curiously  shaped  glasses  and 
some  quaintly  embossed  steins,  Billy  be- 
came pathetically  confidential  and  im- 
parted a  secret  to  me. 

"  Piggy,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "  I  once  cher- 
ished rainbow  visions  of  being  a  great  man 
some  day,  but  I've  given  it  up.  After 
all,  the  only  sure  guarantee  that  you  are  a 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  9! 

great  man  is  to  have  a  five-cent  cigar 
named  after  you  and  see  them  sold  at  the 
drug  stores  at  seven  for  a  quarter."  The 
thought  affected  him  so  that  he  tried  to 
conceal  his  emotion  by  hiding  his  face 
behind  one  of  a  couple  of  glasses  that  were 
just  then  submitted  to  our  inspection. 

If  Billy  only  could  set  his  mind  on  any 
thing  he'd  be  sure  to  make  a  success  at  it ; 
but  the  only  thing  he  has  ever  tried  to  do 
is  to  help  spend  his  governor's  money,  and 
he  is  certainly  the  entire  ping-pong  at  that. 
He  is  of  a  companionable  nature,  however, 
and  is  not  averse  to  assistance  in  his 
pecuniary  labors.  I  help  him  all  I  can, 
and,  to  square  things  up  a  bit,  I  invited 
him  to  be  my  guest  at  the  house  during 
his  stay  here.  He  doesn't  eat  much,  so 
the  family  exchequer  will  not  be  lowered 
materially.  He  never  has  any  appetite  for 
breakfast.  Mother  has  cottoned  to  him  as 
if  he  were  an  orphan.  She  likes  me  to  be 
with  him  for  his  good  example,  for  she 
knows  that  he  doesn't  drink,  he's  always  so 
thirsty  in  the  morning. 

The  other  night  at  dinner  Billy  was  very 
loquacious.  He  had  been  playing  billiards 
all  the  afternoon,  and  there  is  something 


Q2  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

connected  with  the  game  that  always 
loosens  his  tongue.  Somebody  mentioned 
success,  and  that  started  William,  for  he 
always  spells  it  with  a  big  "  S." 

"  Success  is  much  easier  to  talk  about 
than  to  discover,"  he  said.  "  The  man  of 
affairs  who  undertakes  to  point  out  the 
path  to  it  to  a  young  man  anxious  to  tread 
it,  is  like  the  average  man  of  whom  you  ask 
directions  in  a  large  city,  and  who  says, 
'Well,  but  it's  hard  to  tell  a  stranger. 
You'd  better  go  up  this  street  till  you  come 
to  the  City  Hall,  then  take  the  first  street 
to  the  right  and  the  second  to  the  left  and 
—  and  then  ask  some  one  else.' ' 

"  I've  noticed,"  said  Billy,  without  a  pause 
in  his  eloquence,  "that  the  prominent  men 
who  write  magazine  and  newspaper  articles 
on  "  How  to  Succeed,"  always  tell  their 
yearning  readers  to  save  part  of  each  dollar 
they  receive,  but  never  tell  them  how  to 
get  the  dollar.  Fact  is,  if  they  knew  where 
the  dollar  was  they'd  go  get  it  themselves. 
And  they  never  tell  how  they  themselves 
succeeded.  That  would  be  betraying  a 
business  secret.  '  Work,  work  hard,'  they 
say, '  do  more  than  you're  paid  for  doing, 
and  you  will  soon  be  appreciated  by  your 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  93 

employer.  Do  two  dollars'  worth  of  work 
for  one  dollar  and  you'll  soon  be  getting 
three  dollars.'  " 

Here  Billy  leaned  over  the  table  and 
spoke  more  impressively  than  I  thought  he 
was  able  to.  "  Search  the  career  of  one  of 
these  self-advisory  boards  for  the  commun- 
ity," he  said,  "and  you'll  find  that  these 
men  succeeded  by  hiring  men  to  do  two 
dollars'  worth  of  work  for  one  dollar  and 
then  getting  themselves  incorporated  and 
selling  the  work  for  $5." 

When  Billy  got  through,  Ma  smiled 
across  to  me  and  said,  "  How  much  Mr. 
Poindexter  talks  like  your  father ! " 

Your  hopeful  son, 
P. 

P.  S. —  We  are  going  to  a  masquerade 
ball  to-night  at  the  De  Porques.  Old  De  P. 
offers  a  prize  of  $100  for  the  most  hideous 
make-up.  I'm  going  as  Milligan. 


LETTER   NO.   VIII. 


LETTER  No.  VIII. 

His  governors  visit  to  Hot  Springs,  a  contre- 
temps with  a  British  Lord,  together  with 
experiences  with  a  few  physicians, 
insp ire  Pierrepon ?  s  pen. 

CHICAGO,  JAN.  23,  189 — 
Dear  Pa: 

There's  no  doubt  that  the  Hot  Springs 
are  great  fora  good  many  ailments,  and  I'm 
glad  you  are  improving.  Professor  Plexus, 
our  old  instructor  in  calisthenics  at  Har- 
vard, used  to  take  the  trip  to  Arkansas 
with  John  L.  Sullivan,  twice  a  year,  and 
they  both  said  the  treatment  was  fine.  I 
don't  think  Sullivan  had  rheumatism,  but 
your  case  may  not  be  the  same  as  his,  and 
the  scalding  process  will  probably  do  you 
more  good  than  it  does  a  regular  Graham 
hog.  The  boys  around  the  office  laugh 
considerably  when  they  mention  you  and 
the  Hot  Springs,  which  makes  me  rather 
warm  under  the  collar,  for  I  can't  stand 
having  a  father  of  mine  misapprehended. 
I  know  you  for  what  you  are,  but  they 


98  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

know  you  for  what  they  think  you  are,  and 
provisional  knowledge,  you  know,  goes  a 
long  ways  in  the  provision  business. 

Speaking  of  the  Hot  Springs  reminds 
me  of  a  story  Professor  Plexus  used  to  tell 
about  the  Arkansas  boiling  vats.  Accord- 
ing to  him,  there  used  to  be  a  morgue  con- 
nected with  the  establishment,  for  the  use 
of  those  who  were  unlucky  enough  to  suc- 
cumb to  the  treatment.  An  old  Irishman 
was  the  general  factotum  of  the  place,  and 
it  happened  that  he  was  afflicted  with  a 
bronchial  disturbance  that  was  the  envy 
of  every  cougher  who  visited  the  spot. 
Meeting  him  one  day  in  the  abode  of  the 
departed,  one  of  the  doctors  remarked  to 
him,  on  hearing  a  particularly  sepulchral 
wheeze : 

"Pat,  I  wouldn't  have  your  cough  for 
five  hundred  dollars." 

"  Is  thot  so,  sorr  ?  "  retorted  the  son  of 
Erin.  "  Well,"  pointing  with  his  thumb  to 
the  inner  room  where  the  departed  patients 
lay  on  slabs  covered  with  sheets,  "  they's  a 
felly  in  there  who  wud  give  five  t'ousand 
uf  he  cud  hav  ut." 

I  simply  mention  this  little  incident  in 
passing  to  show  that  all  of  us  prefer  the  ills 


The  Son's  College  Girl. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  99 

we  have  to  those  we  know  not  of.  I  would 
rather  be  a  mailing  clerk  at  eight  per  than 
a  free  man  working  freight  trains  for  trans- 
portation and  relying  on  hand-outs  for  sus- 
tenance in  place  of  Ma's  frugal,  but  certain 
table  (fhote. 

I  sincerely  trust,  sir,  that  your  trip  to 
the  Springs  will  do  you  the  anticipated 
good.  Billy  Poindexter  says  —  (by  the 
way,  I  guess  you  didn't  know  he  was  back 
from  the  Klondike.  Not  exactly  that, 
either,  for  he  didn't  reach  the  Klondike. 
The  nearest  he  got  to  it  was  on  the  map 
he  bought  while  he  was  here.  He  went  no 
farther  than  San  Francisco.  His  only 
object  in  starting  for  the  Yukon,  he  says, 
was  to  see  if  he  couldn't  pick  up  a  good 
thing  or  two,  and  as  he  found  them  in 
'Frisco  he  stayed  there.)  He  was  much 
concerned  about  you  when  I  told  him  you 
had  gone  to  the  Springs. 

"  Too  bad  for  your  governor,"  he  said. 
"He  must  suffer  terribly  with  them." 

"  With  them  ? "  I  asked.    "  With  what?  " 

"  Why,  boils,  of  course.  What  would  he 
goto  the  Hot  Springs  for,  if  not  for  boils?" 

It  cost  me  five  minutes'  time  in  a  very 
busy  evening  to  find  out  that  he  had  made 


IOO  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

a  very  bad  joke,  a  paranomasia  as  we  called 
it  in  college ;  in  other  words,  a  pun  or  play 
upon  words.  I've  advised  Billy  to  publish 
a  chart  of  this  joke.  If  he  does  I'll  send 
you  one.  He  says  I'm  as  dense  as  that 
English  lord  who  visited  the  works  while 
you  were  away  last  fall. 

Apropos,  we  met  him  —  the  lord  —  the 
other  night.  We  were  having  a  bite  to  eat 
at  a  rathskeller  after  the  theatre  when  "  his 
ludship '.'  wandered  in.  He  was  built  up 
regardless,  with  an  Inverness  coat  with  grey 
plaids,  that  looked  like  a  country-bred  rag 
carpet.  It  was  the  real  thing,  of  course, 
and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  save  the  four 
dollars  that  have  been  added  to  my  stipend 
until  I  could  get  one  like  it.  I  decided, 
however,  that  I  shall  not  make  my  posses- 
sion of  it  public  until  he  has  left  the  coun- 
try. I  should  really  hate  to  be  mistaken 
for  him.  I  even  prefer  to  be  known  as 
connected  with  your  business. 

Strange  to  say,  when  "  his  ludship " 
reached  our  table,  he  halted  uncertainly  as 
he  saw  me,  and  then  stepped  forward. 

"  You'll  —  aw  —  pawdon  me,  doncher- 
know,  but  —  aw — is  not  this  —  aw  — young 
Mr.  —  aw  —  Graham  ? " 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  IOI 

I  pleaded  guilty,  with  a  mental  plea  for 
mercy,  and  the  next  thing  I  knew  his 
dukelets  had  made  his  monocle  a  part  of 
the  set-up  of  our  table.  I  was  very  much 
embarrassed,  for  I  didn't  know  how  to  in- 
troduce him  to  Billy.  But  his  earlship 
quickly  backed  me  out  of  that  corner  by 
calling  Billy  by  name. 

"  Yaas,  old  chap,"  he  was  saying,  "  I  met 
you  —  aw  —  at  the  Ring  Club,  doncher- 
know." 

Billy  didn't  know,  because  his  sight  is 
often  very  bad,  especially  at  the  Ring  Club. 
So  the  Marquis  gave  his  memory  a  push. 

"  I'm  Fitz-Herbert,"  he  said. 

This  gave  us  the  route,  for  his  picture 
has  several  times  filled  up  space  between 
breakfast  food  ads.  in  the  newspapers. 
Not  that  he  ever  seems  to  do  anything; 
he's  always  being  done  for,  as  the  guest 
of  this,  that  and  the  other.  He  was  des- 
perately civil,  wouldn't  have  us  "  Lord 
Percying "  him,  he  said.  So  it  was  plain 
Percy  after  that  and  "  plain  Percy "  he 
surely  is.  A  homelier  man  I've  never  seen 
outside  the  comic  weeklies.  It  would  be 
great  if  you  could  hire  him,  dad,  to  scare 
the  steers  into  the  killing  pens.  He  likes 


IO2  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

American  ways,  he  told  us,  between  orders 
to  the  waiter.  The  way  he  did  keep  Gar- 
con  bringing  things  was  a  caution,  and  he 
ate  and  drank  them,  too.  But  he  is  bright 
and  sees  a  point  oftener  than  most  British- 
ers. Some  things  he  said  made  it  seem 
almost  impossible  that  he  could  be  other 
than  a  Yankee. 

Billy  was  very  hard  to  keep  in  order. 
About  midnight  he  usually  feels  patriotic 
and  he  said  some  things  that  would  have 
riled  his  lordship  if  I  hadn't  tipped  him 
the  wink  not  to  mind.  Billy  waved  the 
"Star  Spangled  Banner"  at  every  opportun- 
ity and  if  the  British  Isles  could  have  heard 
and  believed  him  they'd  have  sunk  in  sheer 
chagrin.  He  bragged  so  loudly  of  Uncle 
Sam  and  "  the  greatest  nation  on  earth," 
that  the  night  clerk  woke  up  and  came 
down  to  see  how  many  police  reserves  were 
needed  to  quell  the  riot. 

Lord  Percy  stood  it  like  a  weathered 
sport,  but  finally,  when  Billy  was  too 
busy  for  a  minute  to  talk,  he  smiled  over 
to  me  and  said,  "  America's  a  great  coun- 
try, Mr.  Poindexter,  but  —  aw  —  you  must 
admit,  doncherknow,  that  London  is  ahead 
of  New  York  —  aw —  in  one  thing." 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  IO3 

Billy  was  right  on  his  feet  to  deny  every- 
thing. 

"Ahead  of  New  York!  "he  cried,  with 
a  scornful  laugh,  "In  what,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  my  deah  boy,  you  must  know  that 
it's  nine  o'clock  in  London  when  it's  only 
four  in  New  York." 

This  seemed  to  daze  Billy,  and  while  he 
was  recovering  Lord  Percy  excused  him- 
self to  speak  to  some  friends  at  the  other 
end  of  the  cafe.  He  hadn't  come  back  when 
the  place  closed  and  his  pile  of  checks  was 
credited  to  Poindexter's  account  by  the 
obsequious  head  waiter.  I've  since  seen 
by  the  newspapers  that  Lord  Percy's  en- 
gagement to  Millicent  Wheatleigh  is  an- 
nounced. As  she's  got  more  money  than 
any  girl  should  be  allowed  to  spend  all 
alone,  I  presume  Lord  Percy  will  be  less 
thoughtless  about  cafe  checks  after  the 
wedding  march. 

As  you  already  know,  I'm  no  longer  a 
stamp-licker  at  the  old  figure,  but  a  billing 
clerk  at  twelve  per.  I  take  it  that  they 
wanted  to  get  rid  of  me  in  my  earlier  situ- 
ation, and  passed  me  along  toward  the 
ownership  of  the  house  with  a  right  good 
will.  Whatever  the  motive,  I  appreciate 


IO4  LETTERS   FROM   A  SON 

the  fact,  for  the  extra  four  bones  will  enable 
me  to  get  my  boots  blacked  occasionally, 
and  justify  my  acquiring  better  cigars  than 
the  kind  that  used  to  drive  my  friends 
away.  As  you  say,  if  I  am  good  enough  to 
warrant  my  boss  pushing  me  upward  I 
ought  to  satisfy  you  that  I  am  a  rising 
young  man  in  the  splendid  enterprise  of 
murdering  hogs.  I  am  really  learning  a 
good  deal  of  the  business,  for  I  can  now 
tell  a  ham-fat  from  a  legitimate  actor,  and 
heaven  knows  we  have  few  enough  of  the 
latter  in  Chicago.  Billy  Poindexter  says 
that  in  the  east  they  speak  of  "  trying  it 
on  the  hog,"  when  they  produce  a  new  play 
in  this  town,  and  that  if  the  animal  squeals 
and  shows  signs  of  displeasure,  they  know 
the  thing  will  be  a  great  success  in  New 
York. 

But  to  return  to  business.  I  am  glad  you 
are  so  worked  up  about  my  rapid  rise  in 
Graham  &  Co.  To  be  sure,  an  ordinary 
bill  poster  around  town  can  earn  more  than 
twelve  dollars  a  week,  but  his  future  is 
generally  limited  to  three-sheet  bills  and 
a  pail  of  slush,  while  I  am  ticketed  to  a  con- 
siderable share  in  the  assets  of  Graham  & 
Co.  Of  course,  we  all  know  that  this  start- 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  IO5 

ing  away  down  and  rising  by  merit  is 
considerable  of  a  bluff,  for  I  am  your  heir- 
at-law,  and  could  very  likely  break  your  will 
if  you  should  become  cantankerous  in  your 
final  testament.  Of  course  you  understand 
that  I  am  not  threatening  you  at  all,  but 
there  are  certain  physiological  facts  in  my 
position  which  cannot  very  well  be  over- 
looked. You  didn't  consult  me  when  I  be- 
came Pierrepont  Graham,  nor  did  I  ask 
you  to  go  into  the  pork-packing  business. 
Since  each  enterprise  was  a  success  in  a 
way,  we  ought  to  make  mutual  conces- 
sions. 

I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  Ma  is 
getting  uneasy  about  you.  She  even  goes 
so  far  as  to  say  that  she  takes  no  stock  in 
the  Hot  Springs  business,  but  thinks  you 
are  in  St.  Louis,  having  a  deuce  of  a  time. 
I  can't  see  why  she  should  be  so  suspicious. 
When  I  showed  her  the  postmark  on  your 
letter,  she  sniffed  and  said  it  was  easy 
enough  to  get  some  one  to  mail  it  from  the 
Arkansas  boiling-out  place.  She  threatens 
to  start  for  St.  Louis  in  a  day  or  two  if  you 
don't  show  up,  which  might  be  a  pretty 
good  thing,  for  I  could  telegraph  you  as 
soon  as  she  left,  and  you  could  be  at  home 


IO6  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

when  she  returned,  and  give  her  the  grand 
laugh.  It's  a  wise  wife  who  doesn't  know 
her  own  husband,  after  all. 

I  am  getting  into  the  social  swim  with 
both  hands  and  feet,  spite  of  our  business. 
Made  a  great  hit  at  the  De  Porque's  the 
other  night.  The  girls  are  getting  up  a 
new  dancing  association  and  wanted  me  to 
name  it  —  because  I  was  a  Harvard  man. 
I  told  them  to  call  it  the  St.  Vitus  Club, 
and  you  ought  to  have  seen  their  faces. 

I  regret  to  learn  that  you  are  in  the 
hands  of  a  specialist.  I  had  one  of  that 
brand  of  doctors  when  I  had  the  grippe  at 
Cambridge.  I  grew  worse  suddenly  one 
night,  and  as  my  chum  couldn't  reach  the 
regular  physician  by  'phone  he  called  in 
another.  He  had  not  been  in  the  room 
three  minutes  when  doctor  No.  i  drew 
alongside.  They  were  painfully  cordial 
and  had  what  they  called  a  consultation. 
My  chum  said  it  was  a  fight.  At  all 
events  they  decided  that  a  specialist  be 
called.  I  was  feeling  better  by  that  time 
and  began  to  take  notice.  From  what  I 
saw  then  and  have  since  learned  from  others 
similarly  afflicted  I  gather  that  a  specialist 
always  wears  gloves  and  a  beard  and  speaks 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER. 

with  greatideliberation  and  gravity.  After 
feeling  my  pulse  with  excessive  care,  he 
turned  to  each  of  the  medical  men  in  turn 
and  inquired  what  [they  had  done  and 
recommended.  To  each  statement  he 
muttered,  "Very  good,"  or  "  That  is  well," 
although  the  two  regulars  had  failed  to 
agree  on  any  point.  The  other  two  doc- 
tors went  away,  with  lingering  glances,  as 
if  they  hated  to  give  me  up.  Then  the 
specialist  came  out  strong.  "  This  young 
man,"  he  said  slowly  and  impressively, "  has 
the  grippe.  You  will  continue  his  medi- 
cines regularly  to-night  —  mark  me,  regu- 
larly. I  will  prescribe  for  him  in  the 
morning  —  in  the  morning."  Then  he 
walked  out.  When  he  called  in  the  morn- 
ing I  had  done  the  same  thing  —  walked 
out.  I  felt  a  moral  certainty  that  if  he  got 
after  me  I  should  eventually  have  to  be 
carried  out.  The  bunco  business  is  not 
confined  to  gentlemen  with  beetle  brows, 
big  moustaches  and  checked  trousers. 

But  doctors  have  their  troubles  —  the 
conscientious  ones.  Doc  Mildmay — my 
chum  Frank's  brother,  you  know  —  once 
had  an  experience  with  a  chronic  invalid 
—  one  of  the  kind  that  change  their  doctor 


IO8  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

and  their  disease  every  two  weeks  —  that 
was  an  eye-opener.  A  nervous,  choleric 
old  man  sent  for  him.  He  was  chock  full 
of  symptoms  and  his  conversation  sounded 
like  a  patent  medicine  folder.  He  wound 
up  thusly :  "  When  I  go  upstairs  or  up  a 
hill  I  find  difficulty  in  breathing  and  often 
get  a  stitch  in  the  side.  These  conditions, 
doctor,  denote  a  threatening  affection  of 
the  heart." 

Mildmay,  finding  the  old  fellow  fat  and 
thick-necked,  decided  he  was  a  too  liberal 
feeder,  so,  with  a  desire  to  set  his  fears  at 
rest,  he  said  :  "  I  trust  not.  These  are  by 
no  means  necessary  symptoms  of  heart 
trouble."  Here  the  old  man  switched  in, 
glaring  at  Mildmay.  "  I  am  sorry,  sir,"  he 
said  fiercely,  "  to  note  such  lack  of  discre- 
tion. How  can  you  presume  to  differ  with 
me  as  to  the  significance  of  my  symptoms  ? 
You,  a  young  physician,  and  I  an  old  and 
—  well,  I  may  say,  a  seasoned,  experienced 
invalid." 

Doc  needed  a  fee  badly  enough,  but  just 
then  needed  the  air  more  and  got  out. 

Ma  might  send  her  love  if  I  asked  her, 
but  I  guess  you'd  better  trim  ship  for  the 
home  anchorage. 

Dutifully,  PIERREPONT. 


TO  HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  IOQ 

P.  S.  I've  just  learned  that  Lord  Percy 
Fitz-Herbert's  engagement  to  Millicent 
Wheatleigh  has  been  broken  off.  It 
seems  she  refused  to  marry  him  because 
of  his  family.  It  was  a  wife  and  three 
children  in  Maine,  which  is  the  nearest 
he's  known  to  have  ever  been  to  London. 


LETTER   NO.   IX. 


LETTER  No.  IX. 

Pierrepont  gives  his  Pa  a  line  on  the  up-to-date 
methods  of  courtship,  relates  an  episode  of 
calf-love  and  has  a  fling  at  matri- 
monial adages. 

CHICAGO,  Feb.  10,  189 — 
Dear  Father : 

I  realize  that  you  mean  well  by  me  and 
I  accept  your  advice  on  courtship,  love  and 
marriage,  and  all  that  rot,  in  the  spirit  in 
which  it  is  given.  But  really,  my  dear 
pater,  you  are  hopelessly  in  arrears  in  your 
information  on  those  subjects.  Of  course 
you  know  a  lot  about  marriage.  I  cannot 
dispute  that;  it  is  too  obvious;  but  in  mat- 
ters of  courtship  detail  you  are  back  in  the 
stagecoach  age,  hopelessly  old  style. 

Nowadays,  if  a  fellow  is  "  spoons  "  on  a 
girl  he  makes  it  public  in  quite  different 
fashion  than  when  you  "  sparked  Ma "  — 
as  you  rather  vulgarly,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
express  it.  Methods  have  changed  since 
your  salad  days,  when  courtship  consisted 
of  escorting  the  same  girl  home  from  sing- 


114  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

ing  school  three  weeks  running  and  then 
going  in  the  cherished  "  best  suit "  to  "  keep 
company  "  with  her  one  or  two  evenings  a 
week.  The  modern  swain  has  an  entirely 
different  system,  although  I  grant  you  that 
he  makes  an  ass  of  himself  quite  as  much 
as  his  predecessors.  There  is  no  more  sit- 
ting in  the  back  parlor  with  the  gas  low. 
All  reputable  back  parlors  are  electric- 
ally illuminated  and  the  situation  is  there- 
fore changed.  I  do  not  say,  however,  that 
lamps  are  not  sometimes  provided  by 
thoughtful  parents  of  large  families  of 
daughters  of  marriageable  age.  The  aver- 
age young  man,  however,  would  regard  the 
presence  of  a  lamp  in  such  circumstances 
as  a  danger  signal,  and  run  on  to  the  first 
siding.  No  eligible  young  man  likes  to 
feel  that  he  is  walking  into  a  specially  set 
matrimonial  trap. 

As  you  may  judge  from  the  florist's  bill 
brought  to  your  attention,  Cupid,  nowa- 
days, is  very  partial  to  flowers.  In  your 
day  a  straw  ride  once  or  twice  a  winter,  a 
few  glasses  of  lemonade  or  plates  of  ice- 
cream, and  church  sociables  and  picnics 
were  about  the  only  obligations  attendant 
upon  making  a  girl  think  herself  your  par- 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER. 


ticular  one.  To-day  hot-house  roses  and 
violets,  boxes  of  chocolate,  appreciated  only 
when  expensively  trade-marked,  matinee 
tickets,  auto  rides,  dainty  luncheons  with 
chaperons  on  the  side  —  but  I  could  fill 
two  pages  in  enumeration  of  the  little,  but 
expensive  attentions  which  the  up-to-date 
city  girl  demands.  And  all  these  things 
may  mean  much  or  little.  Because  a  fel- 
low runs  up  a  florist's  bill  is  no  sigh  that 
his  next  purchase  will  be  an  engagement 
ring.  Lots  of  fellows  with  lots  of  money 
buy  lots  of  things  for  lots  of  nice  girls  and 
no  questions  asked.  You  certainly  don't 
want  your  only  son  and  heir  to  be  a  rank 
outsider. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  joke  is  on  you  in 
regard  to  that  bill  of  $52  for  roses  sent  to  Ma- 
bel Dashkam  and  charged  up  to  me.  To  be 
sure,  I  don't  quite  see  how  the  thing  reached 
you  at  the  Springs.  Pollen  &  Stalk  ought 
to  be  called  down  good  and  plenty  for  chas- 
ing you  around  the  country  with  a  thing 
they  should  have  known  you  took  no  in- 
terest in.  It  reflects  on  me,  and  I'll  see 
that  such  a  gross  insult  isn't  repeated.  But 
about  the  joke.  I  didn't  send  the  roses  to 
Mabel  Dashkam  at  all.  Since  dallying 


Il6  LETTERS   FROM   A  SON 

with  hogs  I  seem  to  have  acquired  an  im- 
proved taste  in  girls,  and  her  face  doesn't 
warm  me  in  the  least.  The  fact  is  that 
little  Bud  Hoover,  who  is  just  at  present  in 
town,  living  a  life  of  mysterious  ease,  has 
conceived  the  idea  that  he  could  stand  be- 
ing Job  Dashkam's  son-in-law.  He  thinks 
there  is  a  gold  mine  in  the  old  man's  back- 
yard, evidently ;  he  isn't  at  all  afraid  that 
Job  will  ever  borrow  money  of  him  —  and 
he's  right  there. 

Well,  it  came  around  to  Mabel's  birth- 
day, and  Bud,  who'd  been  doing  the  grand 
social  at  the  house  for  some  time,  saw  that 
it  was  up  to  him  to  celebrate  the  occasion 
with  a  "  trifling  nosegay,"  as  he  put  it.  He 
nailed  me  for  the  wherewithal,  urging  that 
I  was  in  duty  bound  to  help  a  struggling 
young  man  to  a  position.  When  I  couldn't 
quite  focus  my  approval  on  that  proposi- 
tion, he  declared  that  I  owed  the  service 
to  him  because  his  grandfather  had  saved 
my  father's  soul.  That  was  a  clincher,  and 
I  let  him  get  the  roses  and  charge  'em  to 
me.  As  you  say,  most  young  fellows  who 
explode  fifty-two  for  flowers  at  one  blast 
will  wish  they  had  the  money  for  provisions 
some  time  or  other.  Not  so  with  Bud, 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  U7 

however;  he  never  can  be  poorer  than  he 
is  now,  and  he  calculates  to  eat  on  Job  for 
the  rest  of  his  natural  life.  There's  a  good 
deal  of  his  grandfather  in  Bud. 

You  needn't  worry  about  my  acquaint- 
ance with  Mabel.  She's  bully  good  sort 
and  always  ready  for  a  good  time  in  good 
company.  But  just  because  a  fellow  is 
civil  to  her  doesn't  jump  her  to  the  con- 
clusion that  he  sits  up  nights  trying  to  fit 
her  name  into  metre.  That's  what  I  like 
about  her.  A  fellow  can  invite  her  to  go 
golfing  without  any  danger  of  her  knocking 
the  ball  into  the  first  grove  she  sights  that 
looks  suitable  for  a  proposal.  The  girls  are 
not  as  dead  crazy  to  marry  as  they  were 
when  you  were  young ;  I  have  proof  posi- 
tive of  this.  Even  mother  admits  that  it  is 
true. 

Your  matrimonial  adages  and  observa- 
tions please  me  quite  considerably,  dear 
father.  It's  a  long  time  since  you  had  your 
little  fling  with  Cupid,  and  the  world  has 
moved  a  bit  since  then,  but  at  the  same 
time  you  strike  twelve  pretty  often.  You 
warn  me  against  marrying  a  poor  girl 
who's  been  raised  like  a  rich  one ;  I  can 
think  of  but  one  thing  worse,  and  that's 


Il8  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

marrying  a  rich  girl  who's  been  raised  like 
a  poor  one.  And  what  you  say  about  pick- 
ing out  a  good-looking  wife  is  eminently 
sane,  if  not  always  practicable.  I'm  bound 
to  observe,  however,  that  if  you'd  put  your 
theory  into  practice  when  you  married,  I'd 
probably  be  a  good  bit  handsomer  than  I 
am.  As  for  Mabel,  she  wouldn't  marry  me 
if  I  could  move  the  whole  Graham  plant 
into  her  father's  backyard  on  the  wedding 
morning.  Her  father's  curbstone  broker- 
age in  wheat  may  not  be  as  high-class  or  as 
remunerative  as  trying  out  hog  fat,  but  it's 
certainly  less  malodorous. 

Besides,  Mabel  has  aspirations.  Al- 
though I  am  not  in  her  confidence,  she  is 
known  as  committed  to  the  theory  that 
love  in  a  cottage  —  or  its  municipal  equiv- 
alent, a  flat  —  is  an  obsolete  form  of  exist- 
ence. The  legitimate  inference  is  that  the 
eligible  men  who  are  several  times  million- 
aires in  their  own  right  had  better  wear 
smoked  glasses  when  they  get  up  against 
Mabel.  Marriage,  to  date,  does  not  appeal 
to  me  strongly.  I  hope  to  trot  quite  a 
number  of  speedy  miles  alone  before  I 
have  to  slow  down  under  a  double  hitch. 
Naturally,  considering  the  fact  that  I  am 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  119 

your  son  and  in  view  of  your  business,  I 
have  not  escaped  a  few  attacks  of  "calf 
love."  I  suppose  it  is  as  inevitable  as  the 
measles. 

The  worse  case  I  ever  had  was  when,  in 
my  first  year  at  Cambridge,  I  made  desper- 
ate love  to  the  accompanist  who  banged 
the  piano  for  the  Glee  Club  rehearsals. 
She  was  a  widow  with  a  small  child  who 
always  accompanied  her,  and  her  desolate- 
ness  appeared  to  touch  a  hidden,  sympa- 
thetic chord  in  my  nature.  Whatever  the 
cause,  I  was  dippy  for  fair.  I  fairly  bom- 
barded her  with  music,  and  the  kid  must 
have  thought  me  an  edition  de  luxe  of 
Santa  Claus.  It's  only  fair  to  say  that  she 
seemed  to  try  to  avoid  me,  but  I  was  not 
to  be  turned  aside.  I  insisted  on  seeing 
her  to  her  door  after  rehearsals,  and  then 
stood  under  her  window  for  hours,  like  a 
cross  between  a  hitching  post  and  a  jack- 
ass. She  was  courteous,  almost  maternal, 
in  her  attitude  towards  me.  The  boys  said 
she  was  thirty-five,  but  I  scorned  them. 
What  was  age  to  love,  which  is  eternity. 

Sometimes  she  smiled  at.  me  and  I 
bounded  up  into  the  seventh  heaven, 
although  I  often  wondered  if  she  was 


I2O  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

only  too  well-bred  not  to  laugh  outright. 
(Her  father  and  husband  had  both  been 
connected  with  Harvard.)  She  was  pretty ; 
I  have  no  doubt  of  that,  even  now ;  but 
her  hair  was  flaming  red.  I  called  it 
Titian  then,  but  love  is  color-blind  with 
all  the  rest.  The  "  fatal  day "  came  in 
about  six  weeks.  I  proposed  in  the  front 
hall  of  her  boarding-house  and  she  took 
me  into  the  parlor  and  closed  the  door. 
That  would  have  been  the  overture  to  a 
breach-of-promise  suit  or  a  Dakota  divorce 
purchased  by  my  loving  papa,  if  she  had 
been  some  women,  but  she  wasn't.  She 
thanked  me  for  the  honor  —  I  have  since 
realized  that  she  was  not  afraid  of  a  white 
lie  —  and  then  she  began  to  try  to  argue 
me  out  of  it.  She  referred  to  the  disparity 
in  our  ages,  to  her  widowhood  and  my 
youth,  to  the  difference  in  our  stations, 
etc.  Of  course  I  pooh-poohed  it  all  and 
vowed  everlasting  devotion.  I  dimly  rec- 
ollect that  I  made  some  mention  of  the 
Charles  River.  After  I  had  delivered  a 
passionate  oration  that  would  have  given 
a  long-time  discount  to  Demosthenes  and 
Romeo  rolled  into  one,  she  looked  at  me 
searchingly  a  moment  and  then  rose  and 
said: 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  121 

"  Very  well,  I  will  marry  you  —  on  one 
condition." 

What  were  conditions  to  me  ?  I  —  you 
know,  just  the  usual.  I  wanted  to  name 
the  day  then  and  there,  and  the  next 
day  at  that,  but  she  insisted  upon  the 
condition. 

"  I  will  go  to  my  room,"  she  said,  "  and 
put  the  condition  in  writing,  that  there 
may  never  be  any  doubt  in  the  future." 

When  she  returned  she  placed  in  my 
hand  a  sealed  envelope  and  exacted  a 
pledge  that  I  would  not  open  it  until  I 
reached  my  room. 

"  If,  when  you  know  the  condition,"  she 
said  at  parting,  "  you  are  still  determined 
on  marriage,  you  will  find  me  in  till  noon 
to-morrow." 

I  ran  all  the  way  to  the  dormitory,  and 
when  I  reached  my  rooms  I  was  so  nervous 
that  it  took  me  five  minutes  to  unlock  the 
door  and  five  more  to  light  a  match. 
Then  I  sat  down  at  my  study  table, —  for 
the  first  time  in  some  weeks  —  tore  open 
the  envelope,  spread  out  the  single  sheet 
of  paper  it  contained,  and  read : 

"  The  condition  upon  which  I  will  enter- 
tain an  offer  of  marriage  from  you  is  this: 


122  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

I  am,  unfortunately,  unduly  sensitive  about 
the  color  of  my  hair.  Will  you  dye  yours 
the  same  red  to  keep  me  in  countenance?" 

I  scarcely  imagine  she  waited  till  noon 
the  next  day, —  that  is,  if  she  had  anything 
to  do.  She  probably  explained  to  the  kid 
that  Santa  Claus  had  died  suddenly.  I 
didn't  recover  my  self-respect  nor  my  com- 
mon sense  for  a  week.  When  I  did  I  sent 
her  a  box  of  flowers  and  enclosed  a  note  in 
which  I  said  that  ever  afterwards  I  should 
regard  red  hair  as  the  accompaniment  of 
strong  common  sense. 

As  for  now,  there  is  scarcely  any  danger, 
as  you  suggest,  of  a  girl  marrying  me  for 
your  money  —  that  is,  if  she  has  seen  you. 
You  look  as  if  you  were  a  goodly  represen- 
tative of  a  line  of  ancestors  dating  back  to 
the  original  Methusalah.  Natural  demise 
is  evidently  afar  off,  and  really  there  is 
nothing  about  you  to  suggest  that  you  are 
likely  to  blow  out  the  gas  in  the  next  hotel 
you  stop  at. 

As  for  love,  I've  none  of  the  symptoms. 
There  isn't  a  girl  in  Chicago  who  can 
boast  that  I've  let  her  beat  me  at  golf. 
Almost  all  girls  are  all  right  to  meet  occa- 
sionally, but  when  you're  picking  one  to  sit 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  123 

opposite  you  at  breakfast  every  morning 
you  want  to  be  sure  you  will  get  one  who 
will  not  take  away  your  appetite.  It's 
safer,  I  believe,  to  select  a  wife  for  what  she 
is  not  rather  than  for  what  she  is.  Al 
Packard  —  you  know  him  —with  his  father 
on  the  Board  of  Trade  —  married  his  wife, 
Sophie  Trent,  because  she  was  a  brilliant 
conversationalist.  Now  he  has  applied  for 
a  divorce  for  the  same  reason.  A  man 
and  his  wife  should  be  one,  of  course,  but 
the  question  often  is,  which  one?  It  is 
rather  trying  to  the  male  disposition  to 
have  the  wife  the  one  and  the  husband  the 
cipher  on  the  other  side  of  the  plus  sign. 

That  you  may  feel  more  confidence  in 
me,  I  will  make  a  confession.  I  was  a  bit 
smitten  last  fall.  I  won't  tell  the  girl's 
name.  She  had  really  done  nothing  to 
encourage  me.  I  called  one  afternoon  and 
her  little  sister  received  me  and  said,  "  Sis- 
ter's out." 

" Tell  her  I  called,  Susie,  will  you?" 

"  I  did,"  she  smiled  back. 

That  ended  my  pool-selling  on  that  race. 

You  don't  say  anything  about  your  con- 
dition at  the  Vattery,  nor  when  you  are 
coming  home.  You  needn't  hurry,  neces- 


124  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

sarily,  for  Ma's  disquiet  about  your  where- 
abouts has  quite  disappeared.  It  seems 
that  old  Wheatleigh,  who  bobbed  up  at  the 
house  the  other  night,  must  have  divined 
her  suspicions,  for  he  remarked  casually 
that  he'd  just  seen  you  at  the  Hot  Springs 
and  that  you  were  looking  out  of  sight. 
The  odd  part  of  it  was  that  he  hadn't  been 
anywhere  near  Arkansas.  It's  curious  how 
a  woman  will  believe  all  men  but  her  own 
husband. 

I  think  I  must  be  making  a  hit  at  this 
billing  business,  for  I  hear  a  rumor  about 
the  place  that  I'm  to  be  sent  out  collecting. 
I  sincerely  hope  you'll  use  what  influence 
you've  got  to  prevent  this,  for  I  can't  even 
collect  my  thoughts  in  this  porkery,  much 
less  gather  in  accounts  due  it  outside.  I'm 
afraid  I've  got  too  much  conscience  to  face 
debtors  to  Graham  &  Co. 

Your  heartwhole  son, 

P. 

P.  S. —  Talking  about  women  suggests 
that  I  tell  you  that  old  Mrs.  De  Lancey 
Cartwright  is  evidently  heartbroken  over 
her  husband's  loss,  although  he's  been 
dead  six  months.  Her  mourning  is  so 
deep  that  her  hair  has  turned  black  again. 


LETTER   NO.   X. 


LETTER  No.  X. 

First  experiences  ' '  on   the  road ' '   inspire  little 

confidence  on  the  part  of  Pierrepont  either 

in  himself,  the  Graham  goods,  or 

country  hotels. 

FOSTERVILLE,  IND.,  March  4,  189 — 
My  Dear  Father: 

Although  I  have  not  succeeded  to  date 
in  getting  far  enough  from  Chicago  to  es- 
cape the  odors  of  your  refinery  and  have 
yet  to  ascertain  how  a  man  looks  when  he 
gives  an  order,  I  feel  that  I  am  going  to 
like  being  a  drummer.  There  is  a  certain 
independence  about  it  which  pleases  me. 
While  I,  of  course,  shall  labor  early  and 
late  in  the  interests  of  the  house,  there  is  a 
great  deal  in  not  having  a  time-keeper  star- 
ing you  in  the  face  every  morning.  The 
call  left  at  the  hotel  office  is  sufficient  re- 
minder to  me  of  the  flight  of  time,  espe- 
cially after  I  have  sat  up  till  4  A.M.  trying  to 
make  things  come  my  way.  I  may  not,  as 
you  hint,  be  cut  out  by  the  Lord  for  a  drum- 
mer. In  fact,  I  don't  believe  I  was,  for 


128  LETTERS   FROM   A  SON 

from  what  I  have  seen  of  the  species  I  am 
of  the  belief  that  the  Lord  does  not  num- 
ber its  manufacture  among  His  responsi- 
bilities. At  all  events  it  is  sufficient  for 
me  to  know  that  you,  the  head  of  the  house, 
have  selected  me  as  one. 

Let  me  reassure  you  on  one  point.  I 
may  have  looked  chesty  and  important 
when  I  started  from  Chicago  the  other 
morning,  but  my  experience  as  a  drummer 
for  Graham  &  Co.  has  so  completely 
knocked  the  self-esteem  out  of  me  that  I 
don't  believe  my  hat  will  ever  cock  on  one 
side  again.  It's  all  right  enough  to  sit  in 
the  office  and  talk  about  the  big  business 
you  have  built,  but  just  get  out  into  the 
world  and  stack  up  against  the  fact  that 
you've  got  to  sell  our  stuff  to  suspicious 
buyers  or  lose  your  job,  and  you'll  find 
yourself  a  first-class  understudy  for  Moses 
in  short  order. 

The  first  two  days  out  I  felt  so  proud  of 
the  house  that  I  added  "  Graham  &  Co." 
to  my  name  on  the  hotel  register.  But  I 
dropped  that  little  flourish  just  as  soon  as 
I  saw  that  it  got  me  the  worst  room  on  the 
key-rack  and  the  toughest  steak  in  the  din- 
ing-room. What  on  earth  have  we  been 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  I2Q 

doing  to  people  for  the  last  thirty  years  that 
makes  them  all  down  on  us  ?  I  see  that 
I'm  going  to  have  no  trouble  in  making  the 
concern  known ;  in  fact,  if  I  may  venture 
to  say  so,  it  seems  to  be  too  well  known. 

For  some  reasons  I  regret  leaving  the 
house.  Business  may  go  on  well  enough 
in  my  absence,  but  it's  a  mighty  poor  fid- 
dler who  thinks  the  orchestra  plays  as  loud 
as  it  did  before  he  breaks  a  string.  I 
thank  you  for  your  hints  as  to  methods  in 
soliciting  trade,  but  I  also  appreciate  the 
truth  that,  after  all,  the  man  on  the  spot 
must  give  the  decision.  So  far,  I  see  no 
reason  for  your  belief  that  a  fund  of  anec- 
dote is  not  necessary  to  the  commercial 
traveller.  (I  may  say  in  passing  that  I  much 
prefer  this  phrase  to  drummer,  although  I 
am  prepared  to  admit  that  after  I  sell  a  bill 
of  goods  I  may  be  ready  to  accept  any  title.) 
Jokes  may  not  be  profitable  as  the  main 
stock  in  trade,  but  they  are  certainly  essen- 
tial as  a  side  line. 

So  far,  I  have  been  utterly  unable  to  get 
up  early  enough  in  the  morning  to  reach  a 
customer  before  he  has  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  one  or  more  of  my  competitors, 
and  when  I  arrive  they  are  usually  so  hila- 


I3O  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

rious  over  funny  stories  that  business  — 
especially  serious  business,  like  the  buying 
of  our  products  —  is  the  thing  farthest  from 
their  thoughts.  Because  a  man  who  wanted 
to  sell  you  a  dog  once  indulged  in  flippant, 
but  you  must  admit,  clever  repartee  about 
your  needing  such  things  in  your  business, 
you  must  not  draw  the  inference  that  the 
sense  of  humor  has  entirely  departed  from 
storekeepers. 

Of  course  the  joke  must  not  be  on  the 
prospective  customer,  as  was  that  of  the  dog 
fancier  in  your  case.  I  found  that  out  to 
my  sorrow  the  other  day.  I  had  almost 
persuaded  a  country  grocer  to  try  a  couple 
of  pails  of  lard  and  a  ham  —  not  munificent, 
but  a  beginning  —  when  I  tipped  the  fat 
into  the  fire  by  being  over  keen  to  take  a 
joke.  A  small  boy  came  running  in  with 
a  wad  of  paper,  apparently  containing 
money,  clutched  in  one  fist  and  a  card  in 
the  other  hand. 

"  How  much  is  ten  pounds  of  sugar  at 
5j  cents  a  pound?  "  he  asked. 

"  Fifty-five  cents,"  said  the  grocer. 

"And  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  6o-cent 
tea?" 

"Fifteen  cents  —  to  your  mother"  — 
smiled  the  grocer. 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  13! 

"And  a  half  peck  of  potatoes  at  28  cents 
a  peck  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Fourteen,"  said  the  grocer. 

"And  four  cans  of  tomatoes  at  12^  cents 
each,"  said  the  boy,  consulting  his  list. 

"  Just  fifty  cents,"  said  the  grocer. 

"  And  six  pounds  of  rice  at  3 J  cents  ? " 

"Twenty-one  cents.  Is  that  all?"  asked 
the  grocer,  as  the  boy  put  his  card  in  his 
pocket. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boy;  "what  does  it  all 
cost:" 

The  grocer  figured  with  a  bit  of  charcoal 
on  a  bag  and  said :  "  A  dollar  fifty-five. 
Will  you  take  the  package  ?  " 

"  Nope,"  said  the  boy,  edging  towards  the 
door.  "  I'm  on  my  way  to  school." 

"  Very  well,  I'll  send  it  right  up,"  said  the 
grocer,  urbanely. 

"  Wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  said  the  boy. 
"  Ma  aint  at  home.  She  don't  want  the 
stuff,  anyhow.  That  was  only  my  'rith- 
metic  lesson." 

As  the  lad  vanished  I  laughed  and  said 
"bon  voyage"  to  my  prospective  order. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  the  boys  say  that  this 
story  dates  back  to  Joe  Miller's  great-grand- 
father. But  it  taught  me  that  it  is  some- 


132  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

times  wise  to  be  deaf,  dumb  and  blind  to 
the  point  of  a  joke. 

Unfortunately,  I  am  short  on  the  joke 
market,  and  to  date  have  been  unable  to 
meet  the  keen  competition  I  encounter  in 
this  line.  Job  Withers,  a  big-faced,  big- 
voiced  chap,  who  travels  for  Soper  &  Co., 
spins  yarns  with  the  speed,  ease  and  pene- 
trating quality  of  a  well  greased  circular 
saw.  When  he  goes  into  a  store  he  looks 
about,  comments  on  any  changes  or  im- 
provements that  may  have  occurred  since 
his  last  visit,  asks  the  proprietor  about  his 
dog,  if  he  has  one,  and  about  his  wife,  if  he 
has  not,  sits  on  a  barrel  and  says :  "  Did  I 
ever  tell  you  — ? "  At  that  there  is  a  great 
shuffling  of  feet  and  all  the  store  loungers 
sit  up  and  take  notice.  -  Then  he  launches 
into  a  story  and  follows  it  with  another  and 
another.  Then,  when  the  boss  is  wiping 
away  the  tears  that  come  with  the  laughter, 
Job  pulls  out  an  order  blank  and,  with  a 
look  about  the  store,  says:  "I  see  you're 
almost  all  out  of  —  "  and  he  writes  off  a  list 
of  things.  Before  the  echoes  of  the  laughter 
have  ceased  the  order  is  rolling  along 
towards  "the  House  "  in  the  custody  of  a 
two-cent  stamp. 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  133 

If  there  is  one  thing  needed  more  than 
nerve  in  this  business  it  is  hypnotism  ;  and 
in  the  practical  part  of  this  science  Job 
Withers  has  Mesmer  and  Professor  Car- 
penter backed  clear  over  the  divide.  It's 
no  trick  to  sell  a  man  anything  he  wants, 
but  unfortunately  no  one  ever  wants  any- 
thing. The  Job  Witherses  see  to  that 
by  their  delicate  attentions  in  keeping 
everybody  stocked  up.  A  man'll  never  get 
the  V.  H.  C.  from  "the  House"  till  he 
learns  how  to  sell  goods  that  his  customer 
doesn't  want,  and  I  tell  you,  pater,  a  good 
swift  game  of  talk  —  the  right  kind  —  is 
what  gives  the  shelves  and  refrigerators  of 
country  stores  indigestion.  If  you  pursued 
a'different  policy  I  do  not  wonder  that  when 
you  tried  travelling  you  had,  as  you  hint, 
to  run  the  last  quarter  in  record  time  in 
order  to  anticipate  a  request  for  your  res- 
ignation. 

But  I  have  a  suspicion  that  you  have  not 
dealt  squarely  by  me.  I  will  be  frank  and 
tell  you  why.  In  view  of  the  paucity  of 
my  supply  of  stories  —  and  nothing,  I  as- 
sure you,  but  extremity  would  have  induced 
me  to  do  it  —  I  overhauled  your  letters  the 
other  day  and  weeded  out  the  best  of  your 


134  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

anecdotes  and  tried  them  on  some  of  my 
intended  customers.  It  immediately  be- 
came clear  to  me  why  you  do  not  believe 
in  story-telling  as  an  adjunct  to  trade.  You 
must  have  been  less  philosophical  during 
your  brief  stay  on  the  road  than  you  are 
now,  otherwise  you  would  have  realized 
that  the  failure  of  your  crop  of  anecdotes  to 
yield  a  harvest  does  not  prove  the  futility 
of  planting  a  different  class  of  seed.  The 
well-known  facts  concerning  our  hams  do 
not  demonstrate  that  there  are  no  good 
hams  in  the  market. 

One  thing  is  sure.  I  shall  send  "the 
House"  an  order  before  the  week  is  out,  even 
if  I  have  to  eat  the  stuff  myself.  It  really 
can't  be  worse  than  the  food  I  get  at  some  of 
the  hotels.  The  hotel  in  the  town  before 
this  was  a  wonder.  I  asked  for  a  napkin  and 
the  table  girl  said  they  used  to  have  them, 
but  the  boarders  took  so  many  with  them 
that  it  was  too  expensive.  I  guess  they 
ate  them  in  preference  to  the  food.  I  told 
the  girl  I'd  have  a  piece  of  steak  and  an 
egg.  She  returned,  cheerful  but  empty- 
handed. 

"  I  am  sorry,  sir,"  she  lisped,  "  but  cook 
says  the  last  piece  of  steak  has  been  used 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  135 

for  a  hinge  on  the  landlord's  daughter's 
trunk.  She  is  to  be  married  to-day, "  she 
added,  with  a  smile  evidently  intended  to 
be  engaging.  But  I  didn't  care  to  be  en- 
gaged, at  least  not  to  her. 

"  Well,  bring  an  egg  and  some  toast,"  I 
said,  amiably. 

"  Sorry,  sir,"  chirped  up  Bright  Eyes, 
"but  cook's  just  beaten  up  the  egg.  She 
says  you  can  have  your  share  of  it  in  the 
meringue  pudding  at  dinner." 

"  What  have  you  got,  then  ? "  I  demanded 
with  some  acrimony. 

"Hot  lamb,  cold  lamb,  roast  lamb,  and 
minced  lamb,"  she  gurgled.  I  subsequently 
ascertained  that  they  sheared  the  lamb  a 
few  days  before  and  that  the  poor  innocent 
caught  cold  and  died. 

If  they  were  as  strict  in  their  menu  in 
these  country  hotels  as  they  are  in  their 
rules,  it  would  be  all  right.  No  hotel  is 
complete  without  a  long  list  of  "  Don'ts  for 
Guests,"  plastered  on  the  inside  of  the  door. 
Here  are  a  few  that  appealed  to  me  with 
especial  force : 

"  Please  do  not  tip  the  waiters  or  the 
porter."  (As  the  waiters  did  nothing  for 
me  and  the  porter  weighed  285  pounds  I 
conformed  to  this  rule.) 


136  LETTERS  FROM  A  SON 

"  In  event  of  fire  an  alarm  will  be  sounded 
on  the  gongs  if  the  night  clerk  is  awake. 
The  fire-escapes  are  in  the  office  safe.  In 
case  of  fire  you  can  have  one  after  you  have 
paid  your  bill." 

It  is  hard  to  get  a  decent  night's  rest  in 
these  hostelries.  If  it  isn't  one  thing  it's 
another.  Last  Saturday  I  was  so  tired  that 
I  felt  I  wouldn't  care  if  I  jumped  Sunday 
right  out  of  the  calendar.  S  unday  morning 
I  was  sleeping  beautifully  when  there  was 
a  rap  on  the  door. 

"  Been't  you  a  goin'  to  git  up  ? "  came  a 
squeaky  voice. 

"  What  time  is  it  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Half  past  seven,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Get  up  ?    No,  go  away,"  I  shouted. 

"  Breakfast  comes  in  half  an  hour,"  said 
the  squeak. 

"  Don't  want  any  breakfast,"  I  thundered 
back. 

"  All  right,  the  other  boarders  do." 

"What  in  blazes  is  that  to  me?"  I 
snarled. 

"  We  want  your  sheets  for  tablecloths." 

Do  not  worry.     I  shall  not  write  long 
letters  to  "  the  House."    They  will  be  as 
short  as  my  expense  account  will  permit. 
Your  hungry  but  hopeful  son,     P. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  137 

P.S.  On  the  dead,  now,  did  my  recital 
of  my  hotel  experiences  make  you  laugh  ? 
They  are  not  quite  genuine.  How  do  you 
think  they  would  go  as  a  part  of  my  sample 
line  of  stories  for  the  trade  ? 


LETTER   NO.   XL 


LETTER  No.  XI. 

Pierrepont  meets   with   some  curious  experience 

1 '  on  the  road; ' '  attends  a  ' '  badger  fight, ' ' 

and  relates  some  of  his  adventures 

in  country  hotels. 

HARROD'S  CREEK,  IND.,  April  16,  189 — 
Dear  Dad: 

There's  no  use  in  telling  me  that  I've 
got  to  dream  hog  if  I  want  to  get  a  raise — 
for  that's  what  all  this  rumpus  on  the  road 
amounts  to,  after  all.  There's  no  need,  I 
say,  to  enforce  the  lesson,  for  I  have  por- 
cine nightmares  every  time  I  go  to  bed  out 
in  this  uncivilized  country.  And  I  do 
wake  up  with  determination  —  the  deter- 
mination to  do  something  to  get  back  to 
dear  old  Chicago,  if  I  have  to  do  the  Weary 
Waggles  act  over  the  pike.  When  I  think 
that  I  used  to  disparage  our  city  in  com- 
parison with  Boston,  I  feel  very  humble 
indeed.  In  comparison  with  the  villages 
I've  struck  since  I've  been  the  avant 
courier  of  Graham  &  Co.,  Chicago  is  a 
paradise  which  no  sensible  man  ought  to 


142  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

depreciate.  Milligan  used  to  tell  about  a 
purgatory  to  which  wandering  souls  have 
to  go  for  a  bit  of  scrubbing  up  to  fit  them 
for  the  good  things  of  heaven.  Of  course 
he  referred  to  experience  on  the  road. 

You  complain  because  my  selling  cost 
in  this  sort  of  life  just  balances  the  profit  I 
turn  in  to  the  house,  but  I  think  it  should 
be  a  source  of  great  satisfaction  that 
you've  got  a  son  who  can  so  rise  superior 
to  circumstances  as  to  pay  his  way  with 
the  Graham  incubus  hitched  to  his  shoul- 
ders. It's  worth  something  to  make  an 
Ananias  of  yourself  a  dozen  times  a  day, 
with  bad  dreams  thrown  in  at  the  end  of  it. 
A  liar  is  popular  only  when  his  cause  hits 
the  popular  taste,  and  I've  yet  to  find  a 
town  where  our  bluff  is  worth  more  than 
twenty-five  cents  in  the  pot. 

Of  course  life  isn't  all  a  vale  of  tears, 
even  during  the  quest  for  orders.  There 
was  a  rift  of  sunlight  yesterday  at  Simkins- 
ville  Four  Corners,  where  I  assisted  at  the 
annual  Spring  dog-and-badger  fight.  This 
function  is  gotten  up  with  such  a  regard 
for  the  proprieties  that  even  a  college  man 
has  to  give  it  his  approval.  I  happened  to 
arrive  in  town  on  the  day  of  the  festivity, 


Piererpont  Graham  as  a  Travelling  Salesman. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  143 

and  just  naturally  wanted  to  see  it.  A  big 
crowd  gathered  in  an  open  space  back  of 
the  town  hall,  and  all  other  interests  were 
neglected  for  the  time  being.  Even  the 
Presbyterian  minister  was  on  hand  to  see 
that  the  thing  was  carried  out  in  a  fair  and 
square  manner,  and  I  felt  that  with  such 
spiritual  backing  the  fight  ought  to  be  a 
good  go. 

There  was  a  good-sized  box  in  the  centre 
of  the  ring,  under  which  some  one  told  me 
was  a  badger  of  exceptional  fierceness. 
About  ten  feet  away  was  a  bull  terrier  who 
looked  like  the  veteran  of  a  hundred  fields. 
He  was  kept  in  leash  by  a  muscular  negro, 
and  the  way  he  strained  at  his  chain  con- 
vinced me  that  badger  was  his  particular 
meat  and  that  he  ate  a  good  many  pounds 
a  day. 

At  the  time  I  arrived  on  the  scene  there 
seemed  to  be  a  difference  of  opinion  as  to 
who  should  pull  the  string  of  the  box  and 
liberate  the  badger.  Finally  the  row  grew 
so  intense  that  an  election  was  proposed, 
and  nominations  for  the  exalted  office  were 
made.  But  every  one  who  was  mentioned 
seemed  to  have  some  out  about  him.  He 
had  bet  heavily  on  either  the  dog  or  the 


144  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

badger,  and  such  a  thing  as  pulling  the 
string  with  impartiality  was  thought  to  be 
out  of  the  question.  Meantime  the  odds 
were  being  chalked  up  on  a  big  blackboard 
amid  the  excited  roars  of  the  crowd,  and  it 
began  to  look  as  if  there  wouldn't  be  any 
dog-and-badger  fight  at  all. 

Just  at  this  point  somebody  suggested 
me  as  the  proper  string-puller,  on  the 
ground  that  I  was  a  stranger  and  not 
biased  either  way.  "  Besides,"  he  urged, "  as 
a  college  athlete  he  is  an  expert  on  sport." 
Then  the  whole  crowd  yelled  "  Graham, 
Graham,"  and  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  re- 
spond to  the  confidence  imposed  in  me. 
So  I  made  a  little  speech  in  which  I  said  I 
was  highly  honored  by  the  nomination  and 
would  accept  the  duty  with  the  firm  deter- 
mination to  do  unswerving  justice  to  all. 

I  took  the  string  as  the  bulldog  was 
making  frantic  endeavors  to  get  at  the  box, 
and  turned  my  head  away  so  as  to  give  a 
pull  that  should  be  absolutely  fair.  Then 
the  umpire  began  to  count,  amid  the 
breathless  silence  of  the  crowd.  At  the 
word  "three"  I  gave  a  tremendous  yank 
at  the  box,  and  —  well,  the  result  wasn't 
exactly  conducive  to  the  dignity  of  yours 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  145 

truly,  for  there,  where  I  had  uncovered 
what  was  supposed  to  be  a  fierce  badger, 
stood  a  full-fledged  cuspidor. 

I  don't  know  which  looked  the  sickest, 
the  dog  or  I,  but  he  had  the  advantage  of 
Deing  able  to  sneak  off  into  the  crowd, 
while  I  had  to  stand  and  take  the  wild 
cheers  of  the  populace  like  a  true  hero  of 
the  Graham  stock.  It  cost  me  consider- 
able to  wipe  out  the  disgrace  in  drink  for 
the  gathering,  but  it  simply  had  to  be  done 
if  I  am  to  sell  any  goods  in  this  vicinity. 
And  as  what  I  am  out  for  is  orders  with  a 
capital  O,  it  follows  that  I've  got  to  have 
the  capital  necessary  to  get  'em.  You 
understand,  of  course,  and  will  approve  my 
next  expense  account  with  a  glad  hand. 

In  this  town  I  am  staying  at  the  Eagle 
Hotel, —  a  hostelry  that  would  probably 
carry  you  back  to  your  boyhood  days.  It's 
the  kind  where  one  roller-towel  does  duty 
for  every  one  in  the  washroom,  and  a  big 
square  trough  filled  with  sawdust  is  the 
general  office  cuspidor.  There's  no  table 
in  my  room,  of  course,  so  I'm  writing  this 
on  the  slanting  pine  board  they  call  the 
writing  desk,  listening  to  the  shouts  of  the 
natives  and  the  stories  of  mine  host,  Major 
Jaggins. 


146  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

The  major  is  a  slab-sided,  lantern-jawed 
individual,  who  got  his  title  all  right  in  the 
war,  as  his  two  cork  legs  prove.  He's  a 
very  tall  man,  and  when  I  ventured  to 
remark  on  his  unusual  height  the  crowd 
roared  and  voted  that  I  was  elected  to 
"  buy."  All  strangers  buy  on  this  particu- 
lar proposition,  I  was  told. 

It  seems  that  Major  Jaggins  was  a  regu- 
lar sawed-off  before  the  war,  and  he  felt  his 
lack  of  height  keenly,  especially  as  he  had 
a  soaring  mind  and  had  to  answer  to  the 
name  of  "  Stumpy."  But  his  time  came. 
At  the  battle  of  Cold  Harbor  he  had  both 
legs  taken  off  by  a  shell.  When  he  came 
to  he  gave  a  yell  of  delight  that  paralyzed 
the  nurses  and  nearly  scared  the  rest  of 
the  hospital  to  death.  He  was  simply 
thinking  of  what  he  was  going  to  do  on 
the  leg  matter,  and  he  realized  that  he 
wasn't  going  to  be  "  Stumpy  "  Jaggins  any 
more.  After  he  was  cured  he  just  gave 
his  order  to  the  cork  leg  people  to  make 
him  two  of  the  longest  pins  he  could  stand 
up  on.  Consequently  he  now  walks  the 
earth  a  trifle  shakily,  to  be  sure,  but  way 
above  the  general  run  of  mankind,  and 
that's  what  he  likes.  He  swore  he'd  been 
short  long  enough. 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  147 

I  simply  mention  the  case  of  Major 
Jaggins  as  a  reminder  that  nature  doesn't 
know  everything,  and  that  art  sometimes 
has  the  last  word.  Even  if  I'm  not  cut  out 
by  an  obliging  providence  to  be  the  pro- 
prietor of  a  big  packing  house  —  and  your 
letters  sometimes  have  a  pessimistic  ring 
that  implies  your  belief  that  I  am  not  —  a 
good  deal  can  be  done  by  kindness  and  a 
judicious  expenditure  of  money.  Which 
leads  me  quite  naturally  to  remark  that 
your  ideas  of  a  travelling  man's  expenses 
are  evidently  founded  on  your  early  knowl- 
edge of  pack-peddling.  Then  again,  these 
country  yokels  have  to  be  conciliated,  and, 
although  whiskey  is  cheap,  they  have 
blamed  long  throats. 

This  hotel  belies  its  name,  for  they  say 
eagles  don't  feed  on  carrion.  But  it's  no 
use  kicking  at  the  table,  for  Major  Jaggins 
simply  stivers  out  to  the  pantry  and 'brings 
back  a  lot  of  Graham  cans  which  he  places 
at  your  plate  with  an  injured  air.  I  sup- 
pose he  has  the  same  gag  for  the  drummers 
of  all  the  different  houses,  but  it's  effective, 
just  the  same. 

Apropos  of  hotels,  I  have  discovered  a 
curious  fact :  the  farther  you  go  the  worse 


148  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

they  get,  and  even  if  you  strike  a  good  one 
occasionally  it  only  increases  your  sorrow, 
for  comparison  augments  the  future  misery. 
It's  no  use  to  try  to  pick  your  hotel.  No 
matter  which  one  you  select  in  a  town, 
you'll  be  sorry  you  didn't  go  to  the  other. 
And  if  you  make  a  change  and  go  to  the 
other  you're  dead  certain  to  regret  that  you 
didn't  know  when  you  were  well  off  and 
stay  where  you  were. 

It's  no  use  to  complain.  I've  tried  it. 
Night  before  last  I  slept  in  a  room  that 
was  apparently  a  gymnasium  for  rats. 
About  two  o'clock,  when  they  began  to  use 
the  pit  of  my  stomach  for  a  spring-board,  I 
went  down  to  the  office  and  pried  the  clerk 
out  from  behind  the  cigar  counter. 

"  See  here,"  I  said,  "I  can't  sleep,  there's 
so  much  noise." 

"  Sorry,  sir,  but  I  can't  help  it,"  he  re- 
plied, flicking  a  dust  atom  from  the  regis- 
ter. "  This  is  a  hotel.  The  Sanitarium  is 
on  the  next  street.  Ever  try  powders  ?  " 

"What  on?"  I  queried,  not  to  be  out- 
done, "  the  rats  ? " 

"  Rats?  I  do  hope  ye  haven't  got  them. 
The  last  man  that  —  " 

"No,  I  haven't  got  'em,  but  the  room 
has.  They're  all  over  the  place." 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  149 

"Rats,  eh?"  and  the  clerk  gave  the 
register  a  twirl.  "  Let's  see,  you're  in  51 — 
dollar  room.  Couldn't  expect  buffaloes  at 
that  price,  could  ye  ? " 

I  stayed  in  the  office  the  rest  of  the  night 
and  in  the  morning  the  clerk  pointed  me 
out  to  his  chief. 

"  That  gent,"  he  said,  "  has  insomniay." 

"That  won't  do,  young  man,"  said  the 
landlord,  with  a  withering  look.  "  We  can't 
have  such  things  in  this  house.  It's  a 
family  hotel." 

I  tried  making  inquiries,  but  it's  no  good. 
Every  man  in  town  will  swear  that  some 
particular  hotel  is  "  the  best  this  side  the 
Mississippi."  Foolishly  enough,  I  tried  to 
quiz  the  clerk  of  one  house,  while  I  was 
registering.  I  wound  up  a  few  queries 
about  the  table  with  the  conundrum,  "Are 
your  eggs  fresh  ?  "  He  knew  the  answer. 

"  Fresh  ? "  he  drawled,  looking  straight 
at  me.  Then  he  rang  a  bell,  and  cried, 
"Front!"  The  one  bell-boy  appeared 
from  somewhere,  eating  what  was  once 
an  apple. 

"  Gent  to  hund'erd  an'  thirteen,"  said  the 
clerk.  "An',  boy,  stop  at  the  dining-hall 
on  your  way  back  and  tell  the  head  waiter 


I5O  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

that  this  gentleman  is  to  have  his  eggs 
laid  on  his  toast  by  the  hens  direct." 

That  was  the  end  of  my  attempts  at 
previous  investigating.  Now  if  I  cannot 
eat  the  food,  I  content  myself  with  chew- 
ing the  cud  of  bitter  reflection.  But  I'd 
barter  my  immortal  soul  for  a  square  meal 
at  mother's  round  table. 

The  time  I've  put  in  at  the  different 
grocery  stores  to-day  has  served  as  a  regu- 
lar eye-opener  to  me  as  to  the  game  I'm 
up  against.  Apparently  nobody  in  this 
whole  country  except  the  patrons  of  the 
Eagle  eat  any  packed  provisions  at  all, 
and  our  special  brand  seems  to  be  a  dead 
one  on  all  the  shelves.  I  couldn't  give  the 
stuff  away,  much  less  sell  it.  I  did  place 
one  order  for  a  hundred  pails  of  lard,  but 
I  learned  to-night  that  the  fellow  is  going 
into  insolvency  in  a  day  or  two,  so  I  guess 
you'd  better  not  send  the  stuff. 

Taking  it  by  and  large,  I  have  discov- 
ered that  a  thorough  course  in  hypnotism 
would  be  the  best  equipment  for  a  suc- 
cessful salesman  of  our  particular  kind  of 
goods.  For  instance,  if  I  could  look  old 
Sol  Blifkins  of  the  Harrod's  Creek  Bazaar 
and  Emporium  in  the  eye,  and  make  him 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  15! 

believe  that  folks  were  just  clamoring  for 
frankfurts  instead  of  rum  in  these  parts, 
and  compel  him  to  see  a  blank  space 
where  our  aged  cans  are  still  lumbering 
his  shelves,  I  fancy  the  thing  would  be  a 
cinch.  One  of  our  fellows  at  Harvard,  the 
son  of  an  Episcopal  bishop,  wrote  me  a 
while  ago  that  his  father  had  decided  upon 
his  taking  orders,  and  that  it  was  a  blamed 
hard  proposition;  I  don't  know  what  his 
special  line  is,  but  if  it  can  match  this 
gunning  for  pork  buyers  he  has  my  sin- 
cere sympathy. 

I  keep  running  across  Job  Withers.  I 
think  he's  detailed  by  his  house  to  watch 
me.  He  arrived  at  the  City  Hotel  this 
morning  just  as  I  was  leaving  it  to  go 
on  a  still  hunt  for  a  ham  sandwich.  He 
greeted  me  cheerily. 

"  Ah !  been  stopping  at  the  City  ?  Good 
hotel.  Fine  table." 

"Is  it?  "I  said  calmly. 

"Yes,  indeed;  best  this  side  of  Indian- 
apolis." 

Thank  heaven,  I'm  going  the  other  way. 
I  didn't  tell  him  that.  What  I  did  say 
was :  "  You  say  this  is  a  good  hotel  and 
a  good  table  ?  "  He  nodded.  "  Well,"  I 


LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

went  on,  "  let  me  tell  you  a  story."  That 
staggered  him,  for  I  saw  he  realized  that 
if  I'd  reached  the  story  stage  I  was  due  for 
business. 

"There  was  once  a  little  boy,"  I  pro- 
ceeded, "who  was  sitting  on  the  walk 
under  a  green  apple  tree,  doubled  up 
with  cramps  and  howling  like  a  pocket 
edition  fiend.  A  bespectacled  lady  of 
severe  cast  of  countenance,  stopped  and 
asked  him  his  trouble.  '  Them,'  said  the 
boy,  pointing  to  the  tree,  '  and  I  Ve  an 
orful  pain.' 

" '  Pain ! '  said  the  lady, '  don't  you  know 
there's  no  such  thing?  You  only  think  so. 
Have  faith  and  you'll  have  no  pain.' 

" '  Gee  ! '  said  the  boy,  *  that's  all  right. 
You  may  think  there's  no  pain,  but,'  rub- 
bing his  stomach  dolefully,  '  I've  positive 
inside  information.'  And  so  have  I  about 
this  hotel,"  I  said  to  Withers  as  I  left  him. 
Confidentially,  I  think  Withers'  label  reads 
"  N.  G."  My  one  object  in  life  is  to  put 
him  off  the  reservation.  From  now  on 
watch 

Your  hustling  son, 

PlERREPONT. 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  153 

P.  S.  Please  ask  the  cashier  to  forward 
an  immediate  check  for  enclosed  voucher 
—  a  bill  presented  by  the  landlord  of  the 
Eagle  Hotel.  The  "  medical  services " 
were  for  typhoid  fever,  contracted  by  his 
family.  It  appears  that  your  drummer 
who  came  here  last  fall  emptied  part  of 
the  contents  of  his  sample  case  in  a  vacant 
lot  back  of  the  hotel. 


LETTER   NO.   XII. 


LETTER  No.  XII. 

Pierrepont  puts  one  of  the  paternal  theories  into 

execution  with  unfortunate  results  and 

recites  some  drummer1  s yarns  with 

philosophical  addenda. 

MUDDY  FORK,  IND.,  April  21,  189 — 
Dear  Father: 

The  tone  of  your  last  letter  isn't  alto- 
gether pleasing  to  me,  nor  does  it  reflect 
credit  on  yourself.  You  hint  that  be- 
cause I  am  patient  under  this  life  of  hard- 
ship and  abuse,  spent  in  trying  to  convince 
people  that  what  they  know  about  Graham 
&  Go's,  stuff  is  all  wrong  —  you  hint,  I  say, 
that  I  am  a  mule.  If  that  is  so,  your  knowl- 
edge of  natural  history  ought  to  show  you 
that  you  are  not  patting  yourself  on  the 
back  to  any  great  extent;  you  are  my 
father,  you  know.  You  remind  me  of  what 
Johnny  Doolittle,  who  used  to  live  next 
door  to  us,  once  said  to  his  father  when  the 
old  man  remonstrated  at  his  lack  of  table 
manners. 

"  Johnny,  you  are  a  perfect  pig! "  shouted 
old  Doolittle. 


158  LETTERS    FROM    A.   SON 

"  Well,  pa,"  replied  Johnny,  as  innocent 
as  could  be,  "ain't  a  pig  a  hog's  little 
boy?" 

I  mention  Johnny  merely  to  remind  you 
that  the  sort  of  reviling  I  have  been  getting 
of  late  out  here  in  this  God-forsaken  coun- 
try, on  duty  for  the  house,  has  its  recoil  and 
you're  the  fellow  who's  getting  hit.  It's 
worse  than  old  Elder  Hoover's  famous  gun 
that  Uncle  Ephraim  used  to  tell  me  about. 
According  to  him,  there  was  a  big  rabbit 
hunt  one  day,  and  the  Elder  was  persuaded 
to  join.  Some  of  the  backsliders  had 
rigged  up  a  gun  for  his  special  use,  loaded 
with  a  double  charge  of  powder  and  shot 
and  rammed  tighter  than  glue.  At  last 
Doc  drew  a  bead  on  a  big  jack  and  let  go. 
When  the  roar  had  ceased  and  the  smoke 
lifted,  the  Elder  was  seen  on  his  back,  paw- 
ing the  air  with  hands  and  feet  and  shout- 
ing for  help. 

"  Did  the  gun  kick,  Elder  ?  "  asked  one 
of  the  bad  hunters. 

"  Kick,"  roared  the  good  man, "  it  nearly 
kicked  me  into  hell,  for  if  I  hadn't  been 
so  stunned  I'd  have  taken  the  name  of  the 
Lord  in  vain,  as  sure  as  I'm  a  miserable 
sinner." 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  159 

Now  if  you  want  me  to  kick,  dear  father, 
I  can  do  a  job  that  would  make  a  Missouri 
mule  look  like  a  grasshopper.  I'm  shod 
with  good  hard  facts  which  you  know  as 
much  about  as  I  do.  If  decency  doesn't 
suit  you,  I'll  give  you  an  exhibition  of 
bag-punching  that  will  make  your  head 
swim. 

I  now  beg  leave  to  report  on  the  result 
of  one  of  your  pieces  of  advice  as  to  ways 
and  means  in  selling.  A  little  while  back, 
you  remember,  you  said  that  I  was  pretty 
sure  to  run  into  a  buyer  who  would  bring 
me  a  pail  of  lard  which  he  would  say  was 
made  by  a  competitor,  and  ask  what  I 
thought  of  such  stuff.  Then,  when  I  had 
condemned  it  by  and  large,  you  allowed  he 
would  tell  me  it  was  our  own  lard  and  the 
store  would  have  the  grand  cachinnation  on 
me.  What  I  ought  to  say,  you  observed, 
was,  that  I  didn't  think  So-and-So  could  pro- 
duce such  good  stuff.  That  would  clinch 
an  order,  sure  enough  —  still  according  to 
you. 

Well,  I  ran  into  the  identical  thing  at 
Higginbotham  Bros.,  in  this  town.  Just  as 
I  was  nailing  an  order  for  200  pails  with 
Lige  Higginbotham,  his  brother  Nat  blew 


I6O  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

in  with  some  lard  that  he  said  was  made 
by  Skinner  &  Co.,  our  big  rivals,  and  asked 
me  what  I  thought  of  that  for  a  bucket  of 
slush. 

I  had  presence  of  mind  enough  to  re- 
member what  you  had  said,  and  I  told  him 
that  it  was  a  blamed  sight  better  lard  than 
I  thought  Skinner  &  Co.  were  capable  of 
putting  out.  Then  I  waited  for  the  laugh 
at  Nat's  expense,  but  there  wasn't  any.  It 
was  very,  very  quiet,  a  stillness  relieved  only 
by  the  working  of  Lige's  jaws  on  his  quid. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  that  I  knew 
was  deadly,  "  if  you,  a  competitor,  say  it's 
good  lard,  why,  gosh  dang  it,  it  must  be 
all  right.  And  seein'  that  Skinner's  always 
treated  us  white,  I  guess  I'll  telegraph  that 
order  for  200  pails  instead  of  givin'  it  to 
you." 

You  see  the  lard  was  Skinner's,  as  I  saw 
a  minute  afterwards  by  the  cover  on  the 
pail.  This  little  incident  gives  me  serious 
doubts  whether  you  can  safely  regard  all 
men  as  liars. 

There  happens  to  be  quite  a  jolly  crowd 
of  drummers  of  various  persuasions  at  this 
hotel  just  at  present,  and  last  night  we  had 
a  little  seance  in  the  smoking-room  for 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE    FATHER.  l6l 

mutual  inspiration  and  advancement.  The 
talk  naturally  got  rather  shoppy  at  last,  and 
the  fellows  began  bragging  of  the  business 
they  did.  A  drummer  for  grindstones  said 
that  he  thought  he'd  average  up  about 
six  sales  a  day,  and  a  fellow  in  whiskey  al- 
lowed that  he  would  make  at  least  ten. 
Then  a  Hebrew,  who  travelled  with  neck- 
ties, declared  that  he  could  take  in  about 
a  dozen  orders,  and  so  it  went.  I  modestly 
admitted  that  I  was  handicapped,  and  that 
two  sales  per  diem  were  about  all  I  could 
attain  to  under  the  circumstances.  Of 
course  that's  more  than  I  do  make,  but,  as 
you  say,  you've  got  to  impress  the  world 
with  the  fact  that  you're  some  pumpkins 
or  you  won't  get  assessed  at  even  cucum- 
bers. 

They'd  all  got  through  their  little  yarns, 
except  one  thin-faced,  quiet  chap  who  sat 
in  a  corner  and  didn't  have  much  to  say. 
Finally  the  Hebrew  pounced  on  him,  think- 
ing he'd  have  some  fun  at  his  expense. 

"You  hafn't  told  us  vat  you  do,  mein 
frent,"  he  said  to  the  quiet  fellow.  "  Efery- 
pody  must  speak  in  this  exberience  meet- 
ing, How  many  sales  do  you  make  ? " 

The  man  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  weary 
expression  on  his  face  and  replied: 


1 62  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

"  Well,  if  I  make  one  sale  a  year,  I  think 
I'm  doing  pretty  well." 

"  Von  sale  a  year ! "  exclaimed  the  de- 
scendant of  Aaron,  with  a  pitying  smile. 
"  Von  sale  a  year!  Vy,  vot  do  you  travel 
for?" 

"  Suspension  bridges,"  replied  the  quiet 
man,  and  we  all  regarded  our  cigar  ashes 
in  silence.  After  a  while  we  suspended  the 
Hebrew  from  the  association  for  not  mak- 
ing good  at  the  bar. 

One  of  the  crowd  is  a  Boston  fellow  who 
is  out  selling  encyclopedias.  He  has  the 
usual  Hub  classicism,  aided  and  abetted  by 
a  desire  to  ask  conundrums.  He  hit  every- 
body good  and  hard,  and  then  landed  on 
me. 

"  Why  are  you  so  different  from  Circe  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Of  course  I  gave  it  up.  Does  anybody 
ever  guess  conundrums  they  don't  know? 

"  Because  Circe  turned  men  into  hogs, 
while  you  are  trying  to  turn  hogs  into 
men,"  he  replied,  and  I  started  for  bed 
then  and  there.  Always  on  the  hog, 
always !  When  will  it  end  ? 

This  town  is  full  and  boiling  over  with 
drummers.  I  never  saw  so  many  in  one 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  163 

day  in  my  life.  There  is  more  shop  talk 
going  on  here  to-night  than  occurs  in  a 
week  in  all  the  Siegel-Cooper  stores.  I 
verily  believe  that  there  are  ten  men  here 
to  try  and  sell  something,  for  every  man 
there  is  to  buy.  Somehow  or  other  the 
town  has  assumed  the  proportions  of  a 
junction,  or  a  drummers'  fair.  The  towns- 
people, they  say,  are  much  excited  over  it, 
and  the  village  constable  is  at  the  town 
hall  swearing  in  two  deputies.  As  Job 
Withers  has  made  himself  very  conspicu- 
ous during  the  day,  I  think  the  reason  for 
the  reign  of  terror  is  evident. 

Job,  by  the  way,  had  a  bit  of  the  conceit 
taken  out  of  him  at  the  depot  this  evening. 
Several  of  us  were  down  there  to  inquire 
about  trains,  etc.  As  no  train  would  stop 
for  nearly  an  hour,  none  of  the  station 
hands  were  about.  Withers  took  the  fact 
as  a  text  and  delivered  a  short,  but  exceed- 
ingly ornate,  sermon  to  the  crossing  flag- 
man on  the  moribund  condition  of  the 
town.  He  fairly  tore  its  reputation  to 
shreds.  Finally,  with  one  finger  laying 
down  the  law  in  the  palm  of  his  other 
hand,  Job  fired  this  at  the  defenceless  old 
flagman : 


1 64  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

"  I  tell  you,  sir,  this  town  needs  more 
life  and  energy.  Something  needs  to 
come  along  and  shake  things  up." 

Just  then  the  Inter-state  Express  dashed 
by  at  sixty  miles  an  hour,  and  "some- 
thing "  came  along.  It  was  a  heavy  mail 
bag  tossed  from  Uncle  Sam's  car,  and  it 
took  poor  Job  plumb  in  the  centre  of 
gravity.  Over  he  went,  like  an  Arabian 
acrobat.  When  we  picked  him  out  of  the 
ditch  he  looked  like  what's  left  after  a 
Kansas  cyclone.  But  he  was  game. 

"  Boys,  this  time  the  laugh's  on  me,"  he 
cried.  "  The  evening's  artificial  irrigation 
will  be  charged  to  my  house." 

I  hate  to  do  it,  but  I  must.  When  Job 
tries  to  cut  me  out  of  a  trade  with  his 
stories,  I'll  make  him  the  hero  of  one  of 
mine.  Then  I  guess  I'll  coax  a  little 
business  by  his  fat  sides. 

Speaking  of  trains,  reminds  me  of  the 
laugh  some  of  the  boys  had  on  Sol  Lichin- 
stein  the  other  day.  He  was  to  take  the 
3.30  out  of  Michigan  City,  and  about 
quarter  of  three  his  great  bulk  —  he  is 
very  corpulent — was  seen  dashing  down 
the  street  at  furious  pace.  A  half  hour 
later  two  or  three  other  drummers,  who 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  165 

had  proceeded  leisurely  to  the  station, 
found  him  still  out  of  breath.  "  What 
made  you  run  so,  Sol  ?  "  asked  one  of 
them. 

"  Hang  it  all ! "  he  answered,  "  the  clock 
in  front  of  the  jeweler's  store  in  the  hotel 
block  was  wrong.  It  said  3.20." 

"  The  clock  on  the  post,  Sol  ?  ''  asked 
one  of  the  party. 

"  Yes ;  confound  it !  " 

"  Well,  Sol,  that  clock's  said  3.20  every 
time  I've  been  here  for  four  years.  The 
hands  are  painted  on." 

When  the  story  was  told  to  a  party  of 
us,  one  man  spoke  up  after  the  laugh  and 
said:  "Well,  it's  not  surprising.  Lichin- 
stein  is  always  chock  full  of  business." 

I  met  him  to-day  for  the  first  time  and 
found  this  statement  is  true.  He  is 
chock  full  of  business  —  liquor  business 
is  his  line. 

Apropos  of  business,  I  may  state  that  I 
think  you  must  find  some  cause  to  con- 
gratulate yourself  on  the  gains  I  am 
making.  As  you  say,  new  methods  are 
better  than  old  and  I  am  beginning  to 
believe  I  have  discovered  a  few  of  them. 
It  has  taken  me  some  time,  for  it's  hard  to 


1 66  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks  and,  although 
I'm  not  so  old,  still  I'm  somewhat  removed 
from  the  young  pup  you  once  called  me. 
Still,  an  old  dog  can  learn  new  tricks  — 
by  himself.  Old  Gabe  Short,  of  Harrod's 
Creek,  says  the  only  re'ason  you  cannot 
teach  an  old  dog  new  tricks  is  because  he 
has  got  on  to  the  game  and  refuses  to 
learn  'em,  knowing  that  he  will  be  called 
up  to  perform  for  company.  Old  Gabe 
knows,  for  he  has  heaps  of  opportunity  for 
observation.  He  hasn't  done  any  work  for 
over  thirty  years.  The  story  goes  that  he 
was  such  a  coward  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
Rebellion  that  he  said,  that  rather  than  go 
to  war  he'd  stay  at  home  and  lick  stamps. 
And  he  did  it,  too.  After  all  the  men  went 
to  war  he  got  the  postmastership. 

Gabe  has  a  fat  old  water  spaniel  who  is 
too  lazy  to  do  anything  but  eat  and  chase 
fleas.  The  latter  task  is  usually  performed 
in  half-hearted  fashion.  One  day  —  but 
I'll  try  to  tell  it  as  old  Gabe  does. 

"  One  day  an  out-of-town  dog  was  friendly 
with  Neb  and  after  he  left  there  seemed  to 
be  a  heap  o'  worry  on  my  dog's  mind. 
He  just  couldn't  keep  still.  It  was  scratch 
here  and  nibble  there.  Fleas  never  seemed 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  167 

to  stir  him  up  like  that  afore  and  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  the  strange  cur  had  im- 
ported a  new  brand  of  the  critters.  Finally 
the  old  fellow  was  so  bad  that  I  gave  him  a 
dose  of  flea  powder.  Seems  like  it  druv 
the  varmints  all  into  his  tail,  fur  he  chased 
it  fur  hours,  as  he  hadn't  done  since  he  was 
a  purp.  I  was  busy  and  anyway  I'd  used 
all  the  powder  I  had.  He's  so  fat  he 
couldn't  catch  that  tail  and  it  was  funny 
an'  a  bit  pitiful,  too,  the  way  he  went  after 
it. 

"  Finally,  just  as  he  seemed  driven  to  des- 
peration, he  stopped  short.  He  stood  and 
looked  around  at  that  tail.  Then  he 
slowly  backed  up  against  the  counter  till 
his  tail  laid  alongside.  Then  he  pushed 
hard  and  grabbed.  When  he  got  through 
chewing  that  tail  if  there  was  a  flea  left  it 
was  mincemeat." 

I  merely  mention  this  in  passing  to  illus- 
trate that  experience  is  a  pretty  good 
teacher,  and  that  it  must  be  your  own  ex- 
perience —  no  one's  else  will  do.  Your 
counsels  and  rules  of  life  are  very  enlight- 
ening and  all  that,  but  they  are  really  of 
little  value  compared  with  the  hard  knocks 
of  actual  experience.  You  may  explain  to 


1 68  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

a  boy  till  you're  black  in  the  face  that  fire 
is  a  dangerous  element  to  monkey  with, 
but  it  takes  a  few  burnt  fingers  to  instill 
real  dread  of  a  cannon-cracker.  You  are 
giving  me  the  experience  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  it's  the  best  thing  that  could 
happen  to  me.  But  really,  father,  you 
may  overdo  it.  Your  anxiety  for  my  future 
may  make  my  present  unduly  uncomfort- 
able. 

In  this  connection  I  am  reminded  of  a 
story  told  by  the  pastor  of  Tremont  Temple 
in  Boston,  Dr.  George  C.  Lorimer,  in  a 
lecture  that  I  attended.  He  didn't  vouch 
for  the  truth  of  the  story,  but  thought  it  en- 
forced a  moral.  "  A  nestful  of  linnets,"  he 
said,  "  were  in  a  field  in  India.  Their 
mother  had  flown  away  and  left  them. 
They  were  cold  and  hungry  and  flapped 
their  wings  and  cried.  An  enormous 
elephant  chanced  to  note  their  plight. 
"  Poor  little  things,"  said  the  elephant. 
'  No  mother,  no  one  to  keep  you  warm  and 
nestle  you.  My  mother's  heart  aches  for 
you.  I  will  nestle  you  and  keep  you  warm.' 
And  the  elephant,  in  pure  goodness  of 
heart,  sat  down  upon  the  nest  of  poor  little 
linnets." 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  169 

It  may  not  be  out  of  order  to  mention 
that  you  quite  frequently  sit  upon 

Your  loving  son, 

PlERREPONT. 

P.  S.  Just  a  suggestion.  A  leading 
grocer  here  says,  that  if  the  labels  on  our 
canned  goods  did  not  display  the  name 
"  Graham  "  so  prominently,  he  thinks  he 
could  sell  some  of  them. 


LETTER   NO.   XIII. 


LETTER  No.  XIII. 

A  farmhouse,  a  farmer's  daughter  and  bucolic 
pleasures  and  pastimes  give  Pierrepont  a 
respite  front  commercial  activities ,  but 
not  from  the  study  of  pig. 

DOOLITTLE  MILLS,  IND.,  May  25,  189 — 
Dear  Father  : 

I  take  it  that  you  are  now  enough  of  a 
philosopher  to  suppress  any  surprise  you 
may  feel  to  see  a  letter  dated  at  this 
outpost  of  civilization.  I  admit  that  it's 
somewhat  off  the  beaten  track  for  the 
distribution  of  lard  and  pork  products,  but 
I  got  here  legitimately  enough,  as  you  shall 
learn.  The  people  hereabouts  raise  their 
own  hogs,  and  I  believe  it  would  interest 
you  to  see  the  real  article.  Their  lard  is 
so  attractive  in  appearance  that  I  mistook 
it  for  vanilla  ice  cream  when  shown  some 
last  night,  not  stopping  to  think  that  your 
simon-pure  farmer  never  uses  his  cream 
for  such  frivolous  purposes.  However, 
their  stuff  showed  me  that  the  nearer  you 
get  to  nature  and  the  farther  from  the 


174  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

stock-yards,  the  more  respectable  an  animal 
is  the  pig. 

But  to  the  adventure  that  brought  me 
here.  I  left  for  the  southern  part  of  the 
state  yesterday  morning  on  the  Catling 
Gun  Express,  and  all  went  well  until  we 
struck  a  cow  at  about  noon,  a  few  miles 
from  where  I  have  pitched  the  Graham 
headquarters.  The  cow  is  now  beef,  all 
right,  but  the  locomotive  is  also  scrap-iron. 
The  track  was  blocked  for  keeps  at  the 
lonely  crossing  where  the  horror  occurred, 
and  there  seemed  to  be  no  escape  from  a 
dreary  wait  for  the  wrecking  train.  But  I 
investigated,  and  soon  discovered  an  an- 
cient farmer  with  a  horse  whose  meridian 
of  life  had  long  since  passed,  jogging  along 
toward  somewhere  —  anywhere,  away  from 
the  slough  of  despond  in  which  the  cow 
had  deposited  us.  I  grabbed  my  samples 
—  which,  by  the  way,  are  of  no  earthly  use 
in  this  section  of  the  world  —  and  begged 
for  transportation.  I  got  it  for  twenty-five 
cents  and  a  cigar  whose  antecedents  I  fain 
would  forget,  and  started  for  the  interior. 

It  was  an  interesting  locality  where  we 
brought  up.  Doolittle's  Mills  are  appar- 
ently so  named  because  there's  so  little 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  175 

doing  in  them  that  the  building  which 
gives  the  place  its  name  looks  like  a 
church  where  all  the  citizens  are  atheists. 
Once  a  year,  in  the  time  of  the  early  spring 
freshets,  they  saw  a  few  boards  for  exer- 
cise. But  just  now  the  farmers  have  the 
call,  and  the  call  is  usually  the  tin-horn 
summons  to  dinner,  which  is  the  only 
sound  that  awakes  any  interest  in  the 
people.  Just  now  they  are  putting  in  po- 
tatoes, corn,  and  beans,  and  the  only  fertil- 
izer they  use  are  cuss  words  and  hard 
cider,  which  go  well  enough  together  at 
the  start,  but  don't  hitch  worth  a  cent  at 
harvest  time. 

My  rustic  benefactor  was  christened 
Martin  Van  Buren  Philpot,  but  long  use 
has  shrunk  his  cognomen  considerably, 
and  he  is  now  known  as  "  Vebe."  He  has 
a  big  quiverful  of  children,  the  thirteenth 
of  whom  arrived  about  three  weeks  ago. 
"  Vebe  "  has  named  him  Theodore  Roose- 
velt, and  is  still  waiting  for  the  silver  mug. 
Says  he's  afraid  the  thirteen  part  of  it  will 
queer  the  kid's  chances. 

You  would  like  Mrs.  Philpot,  I  think. 
She  is  full  of  homely  philosophy  and  has  a 
face  to  match.  Her  cooking,  though, 


176  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

might  be  improved  by  a  course  of  training 
under  Oscar  of  the  Waldorf.  I  don't  just 
remember  the  sort  of  biscuits  Ma  used  to 
produce,  but  if  they  were  anything  like 
Mrs.  Philpot's  I  can  account  for  your  dys- 
pepsia. 

The  little  Philpots  are  sportive  creatures 
who  insist  on  showing  me  the  pigs  about  a 
dozen  times  a  day.  I  believe  I  unwarily 
dropped  a  hint  as  to  my  occupation  when 
I  arrived,  and  they  seem  to  think  I  want  to 
see  pork  all  the  time.  They  call  me  the 
hog  man,  but  they  are  such  innocent  kids 
that  I  can't  show  any  resentment.  This 
afternoon  they  took  me  out  to  the  pasture 
to  view  a  sit-stilPs  nest.  Said  the  mother 
bird  was  on  the  eggs  and  wouldn't  fly,  even 
when  handled.  Just  before  we  reached  the 
place  two  of  them  ran  ahead,  and  Johnny 
Philpot  clapped  his  straw  hat  on  the 
ground  and  signalled  me  to  hurry. 

"  She's  here,  all  right,  mister,"  said 
Johnny,  quivering  with  excitement.  "Now 
you  jest  stoop  down,  and  when  I  lift  my 
hat,  you  grab  the  bird." 

Slowly  the  brim  of  yellow  straw  rose, 
and  with  lightning-like  celerity  I  dashed 
my  hand  through  the  opening.  Then  there 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  177 

was  a  sharp  click  and  a  wild  whoop  from 
myself  as  a  steel  trap  closed  its  jaws  on  my 
fingers  and  held  on  like  death.  You  never 
saw  such  delighted  children  in  your  life. 
They  danced  around  me  all  the  while  I 
was  trying  to  get  the  confounded  thing  off 
my  hand,  and  said  I  "swore  orful."  I 
guess  I  did.  After  awhile  Johnny  helped 
me,  and  allowed  I  was  real  funny.  He'll 
never  know  how  near  he  came  to  a  violent 
death  in  his  happy  childhood. 

The  way  these  simple  people  combine 
business  and  pleasure  would  be  a  revela- 
tion to  the  packing  house.  I  saw  a  good 
example  of  this  peculiarity  at  a  barn-raising 
that  "  Vebe "  Philpot  arranged  for  this 
morning.  It  showed,  too,  that  the  country- 
man was  the  original  socialist.  About 
forty  farmers  gathered  at  the  place  in  vehi- 
cles that  would  simply  make  the  Lake  Front 
howl.  Every  man  then  visited  the  tool- 
house,  where  a  tin  wash-boiler  filled  with 
what  they  call  here  "  horse's  neck,"  a  savage 
compound  of  whiskey  and  hard  cider,  occu- 
pied the  place  of  honor.  They  tell  me  that 
"  horse's  neck "  and  barn-raisings  are  one 
and  inseparable  in  these  parts,  and  that 
any  attempt  to  preach  temperance  at  such 


1 78  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

occasions  would  lead  to  rioting.  I'll  do 
old  Philpot  the  justice  to  say  that  his  wash- 
boiler  was  the  real  thing,  and  erred  a  bit 
on  the  side  of  hard  liquor,  if  anything. 

Having  gotten  themselves  in  first-class 
trim,  the  barn-raisers  proceeded  to  busi- 
ness. The  way  they  do  the  work  is  this : 
Two  uprights  lying  on  the  ground  are  fas- 
tened top  and  bottom  by  crossbeams  and 
a  long  rope  is  hitched  to  each  end.  About 
fifteen  men  attach  their  persons  to  each 
rope,  and  the  other  ten  jam  big  crowbars 
against  the  bottom  beam  to  prevent  its 
slipping.  Then  somebody  yells  "  hist  her ! " 
and  the  crowd  on  the  ropes  tug  like  bulls 
and  that  part  of  the  frame  goes  slowly  up. 
They  prop  this  up  lightly  to  prevent  its 
falling,  and  proceed  to  get  the  other  end 
perpendicular  in  the  same  fashion.  Then 
up  go  the  sides  to  be  cleated  to  the  end, 
and  the  thing  is  done. 

But  it  wasn't  quite  done  this  morning, 
for  just  as  the  second  side  was  being  fas- 
tened in  place  by  my  genial  host,  who  had 
been  boosted  up  on  the  corner  to  do  the 
job,  one  of  the  props  broke,  and  the  whole 
blamed  frame,  including  "  Vebe,"  came  to 
the  ground  in  a  grand  crash.  "  Vebe " 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  179 

wasn't  hurt  very  much  physically,  but  his 
spirits  were  greatly  damaged.  Father,  you 
may  think  you  can  juggle  expletives  pretty 
well,  you  may  believe  that  Milligan  can 
swear  good  and  plenty;  but  neither  of  you 
ever  dreamed  of  such  a  Niagara  of  blue- 
streaked  and  sulphur-fumed  cuss  words  as 
came  from  that  irate  farmer.  The  rest  of 
the  crowd  lit  out,  after  a  farewell  visit  to 
the  wash-boiler,  for,  as  one  weazened  old 
veteran  told  me  confidentially,  "  When 
'Vebe'  war  in  tarntrums  it  war  no  use 
treatin'  him  like  a  civilized  critter." 

To  that  mishap  of  the  morning  I  attri- 
bute the  rather  doleful  ending  of  some- 
thing that  occurred  this  evening.  It  seems 
that  old  Philpot's  son  Ike  got  married  a 
day  or  two  ago,  and,  after  the  poetic  custom 
of  the  country,  the  neighbors  determined 
to  give  him  a  serenade.  To-night  was  the 
chosen  time.  I  guess  it  was  a  surprise,  all 
right,  for  when  the  awful  pandemonium  of 
tin  horns,  cow-bells,  rattles,  cracked  cor- 
nets and  whistles  broke  upon  the  peaceful 
air  like  a  blast  from  a  madhouse,  old 
"Vebe"  made  a  dash  for  his  double-bar- 
relled shotgun  and  let  go  twice  into  the 
crowd. 


ISO  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

"  Dern  fresh  fools,"  he  growled,  as  he 
cleaned  his  smoking  gun.  "  Guess  that'll 
season  'em  all  right."  I  was  horrified  and 
asked  him  if  he  wasn't  afraid  he  had  killed 
somebody. 

"  Kill  nuthin',"  he  snorted.  "  That  thar 
was  good  honest  rock  salt.  It'll  melt 
inside  their  blasted  pelts  and  sting  like  all 
possessed,  but  that's  all.  Don't  you  worry 
about  any  of  'em  dyin',  they're  too  con- 
sarned  tough." 

Of  course  Ike  and  his  new  wife  appeared 
on  the  scene  as  soon  as  the  rumpus  began, 
and  the  young  husband  bitterly  upbraided 
his  dad,  until  I  thought  I  should  have  to 
serve  as  referee  in  a  good  bout  then  and 
there.  Ike  said  that  the  old  man  had 
ruined  his  credit  in  the  town  forever;  that 
he  never  could  hold  his  head  up  again. 
He  appealed  to  me,  and  asked  why  fathers 
always  wanted  to  make  jackasses  of  them- 
selves where  their  sons  were  concerned.  I 
couldn't  tell  him,  of  course.  Finally  the 
household  quieted  down,  but  the  upshot  of 
it  is  that  Ike  is  going  to  quit  to-morrow 
and  get  out  a  handbill,  saying  that  his 
father  was  drunk  when  the  unfortunate 
affair  occurred,  and  inviting  the  town  to 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  l8l 

serenade  him  again  in  his  new  home.  You 
see  it's  almost  a  religious  point  with  young 
couples  in  this  section  of  the  world  that 
their  banns  be  blessed  with  the  most  out- 
rageous racket  man  can  devise.  They 
actually  feel  sort  of  shame-faced  otherwise. 

Speaking  of  banns  naturally  leads  me  to 
remark,  that  however  shy  on  personal 
beauty  Mrs.  Philpot  may  be,  she  has  a 
daughter  of  the  Ai  pure  leaf  brand.  Her 
name  is  Verbena,  and  she  can  certainly  give 
points  to  her  namesake  in  the  matter  of 
sweetness.  Naturally,  she  was  somewhat 
upset  after  the  stirring  experiences  of  this 
evening,  and  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  restore  her 
equanimity,  especially  as  I  was  a  guest  in 
the  house.  We  sat  for  quite  a  while  in  the 
best  parlor  and  Verbena  grew  somewhat 
confidential.  She  said  she  had  a  beau  over 
at  Bumstead  Four  Corners,  but  that  as  a 
sparker  he  was  about  as  useful  as  a  pig  of 
lead.  Asked  me  if  I  didn't  think  that  city 
men  had  more  real  romance  and  made  bet- 
ter husbands.  At  this  point  I  slowly  with- 
drew my  hand  from  her  pretty  one,  for 
there  was  something  in  the  suggestion  that 
looked  ominous. 

I  think  I  might  have  kissed  Verbena 


182  LETTERS  FROM  A  SON 

good-night  had  not  old  Philpot  appeared 
on  the  scene.  I  am  almost  inclined  to  be- 
lieve that  he  had  some  notion  as  to  what  I 
meditated  and  that  he  was  simply  a  little 
ahead  of  time.  For,  before  coming  to  my 
room  to  write,  I  strolled  out  for  a  smoke 
and  met  one  of  Philpot's  neighbors,  a  gar- 
rulous old  fellow. 

"  Verbena's  a  likely  gal,"  was  the  way  he 
opened  on  me.  I  admitted  it.  "  Engaged 
yit  ?  "  was  his  astounding  query.  Quietly 
but  firmly,  I  denied  the  soft  impeachment. 
"  So-ho  "  he  said,  "  Vebe's  a-gettin'  slow." 

Curiosity  got  the  better  of  me  and  in  a 
half  hour's  talk  I  wormed  considerable  in- 
formation out  of  my  companion.  It  seems 
that  the  three  oldest  girls  married  recently 
and  that  their  husbands  were  travelling  men 
who,  for  some  occult  reason,  had  penetrated 
into  this  country.  In  two  cases  there  was 
an  elopement,  said  my  informant. 

"What  did  the  father  do?"  I  asked, 
thinking  of  old  Philpot's  shotgun. 

"  Do  ? "  echoed  the  old  farmer,  "  waal,  he 
helped  the  hired  man  to  sot  the  ladder 
under  Dahlia's  window,  and  when  Lobelia 
skipped  with  her  feller,  *  Vebe '  routed  the 
hired  man  out  o'  bed  at  two  in  the  morning 


TO  HIS  SELF-MADE  FATHER.  183 

to  hitch  up  the  best  hoss,  so's  he  could  fol- 
ler  the  elopers  with  the  girl's  trunk.  I  tell 
yer,  it's  tough  tripe  to  have  so  many  dar- 
ters in  this  country." 

I've  made  up  my  mind  that  Verbena's 
flier  than  she  looks  and  that  she  and  her 
old  man  have  an  understanding. 

To-morrow  I  leave  this  sylvan  retreat 
and  start  cnce  more  on  the  pursuit  of  the 
man  who  wants  pig.  I  believe  this  little 
outing  has  given  me  new  nerve,  and  that 
you  will  soon  get  Orders,  More  Orders  and 
Big  Orders,  the  only  trinity  you  seem  to 
think  has  any  holiness  in  it.  I  wonder  how 
Verbena  will  take  my  departure. 
Your  dutiful  son, 

PlERREPONT. 

P.S.  I've  been  thinking  over  old  Phil- 
pot's  rock  salt  shooting,  and  it  suggests  a 
great  idea.  Why  not  kill  hogs  with  volleys 
of  the  stuff,  thus  obviating  the  necessity  of 
salting  'em  ? "  Do  I  get  a  raise  for  this 
invention  ? 

P. 


LETTER   NO.   XIV. 


LETTER  No.  XIV. 

A    companionable    deputy    sheriff,    a    hospitable 

townsman,  and  "  the  best-natured  wife  on 

earth  "  inspires  Pierrepont' s  pen  to  the 

narration  of  lively  incidents. 

JASPER,  IND.,  July  21,  189  — 
My  Dear  Father: 

I  am  surprised  that  my  broker  should 
have  given  you  the  particulars  of  my  little 
flyer  in  short  ribs — I  mean  ribs  short  — 
and  in  future  I  shall  patronize  another 
broker.  The  few  hundreds  I  made  in  that 
deal  I  had  relied  upon  to  dispose  of  a  little 
bill  I  owe  in  Chicago.  When  it  started  it 
wasn't  quite  so  much  like  the  national 
debt  as  it  is  now ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  have 
been  carting  a  deputy  sheriff  round  the 
country  for  three  weeks,  paying  for  his 
time  and  board.  Now  you  want  me  to  re- 
turn the  check,  endorsed  to  the  treasurer 
of  some  orphanage.  If  you  saw  that  dep- 
uty sheriff  you  wouldn't  have  the  heart.  If 
I  sent  you  back  the  check  it  was  lost  in 
the  mail  and  we'll  forget  it. 


1 88  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

I've  been  so  busy  arranging  to  sell  car- 
loads of  our  stuff  that  I  really  haven't  been 
able  to  write  before,  but  when  I  got  rid  of 
that  deputy  a  great  load  was  removed  from 
my  mind.  It's  a  tough  thing  to  go  in  to 
try  and  sell  a  hard  proposition  a  bill  of 
goods  —  this  is  a  euphemism  in  our  case 
—  and  know  that  the  eye  of*  the  law  is 
glued  upon  the  show-window,  lest  you  es- 
cape by  the  back  door.  If  I'm  to  keep  up 
my  present  spurt  in  the  market  you'll  have 
to  raise  the  limit.  Thirty  a  week  might 
do  for  a  drummer  when  you  started  busi- 
ness, but  for  a  commercial  traveller  of  to- 
day it's  only  tip  money.  I'm  making  good 
now,  and  if  I'm  not  worth  more  than  thirty 
I'm  useless  to  you.  I  may  mention  in 
passing  that  I've  had  an  offer  from  Soper 
&  Co.  to  jump  over  to  them.  They  don't 
know  I'm  your  son.  They  know  that  I'm 
the  same  fellow  who  was  at  your  mailing 
desk  a  while  back,  and  probably  cannot 
imagine  that  you  would  treat  your  only 
the  way  I  was  treated.  You  will  agree 
with  me  that  business  is  business  and  I 
can  learn  it  quite  as  well  selling  car  lots 
for  Soper  as  for  any  one  else.  A  word  to 
the  wise  —  and  to  the  cashier  —  is  sufficient 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  189 

Don't  worry  about  my  becoming  a  vic- 
tim to  gambling  on  margin.  Your  tip  on 
the  market  —  that  you  will  fire  me  if  I  keep 
it  up  —  is  valuable.  I  will  see  to  it  that  you 
hear  no  more  of  my  trading.  I  should  not 
have  taken  this  particular  flyer  had  it  not 
been  for  the  fact  that  you  wrote  the  last 
sheet  of  one  of  your  recent  letters  on  the 
back  of  a  typewritten  note  from  Gamble  & 
Chance,  in  which  they  advised  you  that 
they  had  placed  your  order  to  sell  ribs  short. 
I  just  made  up  my  mind  that  what  was  good 
enough  for  pop  must  be  real  velvet  for 
sonny.  You  know  you  have  always  urged 
me  to  follow  your  example.  I  am  quite 
certain  that,  now  you  are  in  possession  of 
the  full  facts,  you  will  revise  your  idea  about 
that  check.  At  all  events,  as  I  have  hinted, 
that  particular  check  is  so  full  of  bank  tel- 
ler's stamps  that  its  own  father  would 
scarcely  know  it. 

I  never  did  take  much  stock  in  trading 
"on  'change."  It's  a  form  of  gambling 
where  interest  is  sacrificed  by  the  fact  that 
you  do  not  see  the  ball  rolled  or  the  cards 
dealt.  Even  when  you  see  the  play  you 
may  be  up  against  a  brace  game,  so  what 
can  you  expect  when  two  or  three  big  deal- 


IQO  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

ers,  like  my  revered  parent,  get  together 
and  mark  the  cards  for  a  big  game  ?  Any- 
way, I'd  rather  bet  any  day  on  something 
straight.  If  a  man  gambles  on  whether  the 
sun  will  shine  or  not  on  certain  days  he 
may  be  unlucky  enough  to  lose  every  trip, 
but  he  will  at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  no  thimble  rigging  in  some- 
body's back  office  introduced  the  clouds. 

Finance,  as  I  understand  it,  is  the  art  of 
making  the  other  fellow's  dollar  work  for 
the  financier;  but  this  requires  a  sort  of 
hypnotism  that  I  do  not  yet  possess.  I 
may  grow  to  it ;  indeed,  now  that  I  find 
nyself  able  to  sell  the  goods  manufactured 
by  our  house,  I  am  almost  afraid  to  look 
a  mirror  in  the  face  lest  I  discover  that  I 
am  possessed  of  the  evil  eye.  The  "  marts 
of  trade,"  as  the  poet  puts  it,  strike  me 
as  queer  places.  The  interior  of  a  stock  or 
produce  exchange  is  certainly  an  under- 
study for  bedlam,  if  my  imagination  is 
correct. 

"  Give  you  86  for  C.P.  &  N.,"  shouts  one. 

"  No,"  comes  the  reply,  "  want  86  and  an 
eighth." 

"  All  right." 

"Sold." 

"  I'll  take  500.' 


The  Son's  Society  Girl. 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER. 

And  nobody  takes  a  thing,  for  the  man 
who  sells  it  hasn't  got  it  and  the  man  who 
buys  don't  want  it.  No  wonder  the  poor 
lambs  lose  their  fleece  and  their  heads. 
Nevertheless,  that  short-rib  check  was  a 
life-saver. 

I  was  actually  so  poor  that  I  had  to  de- 
scend to  living  in  lodgings  for  three  days. 
Think  of  it,  the  heir  of  Graham  &  Co.  in 
lodgings !  What  would  "  the  street "  say  of 
that  ?  But  I  have  found  that  the  Graham 
credit  is  all  covered  with  N.G.'s  at  the 
hotels  and  I  scarcely  cared  to  come  home 
with  a  deputy  sheriff  among  my  excess 
baggage.  So  I  went  into  lodgings  in  an 
"  over  Sunday  "  town.  It  gave  me  a  lesson 
on  the  danger  of  officiousness  that  I'm  not 
likely  to  forget,  but,  although  for  a  few  min- 
utes I  could  see  the  danger  lights  of  a  sound 
thrashing  dead  ahead,  it  ended  pleasantly. 
Lodgings  were  hard  to  find,  but  the  cigar 
store  man  finally  recommended  me  to  a 
place.  The  woman  who  answered  my 
ring  was  willing  to  let  me  —  and  the  sheriff 
—  a  room,  but  before  we  arranged  terms 
she  took  me  one  side  and  made  an  ex- 
planation. 

Her  husband,  she  said,  was  apt  to  stay 


LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

out  very  late  at  night  in  convivial  company 
and  I  might  be  disturbed  by  his  noise  when 
he  came  home.  I  assured  her  that,  as  a 
patron  of  hotels,  I  was  quite  used  to  this 
sort  of  thing,  and  forthwith  negotiated  for 
the  use  of  her  front  parlor.  About  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  awakened 
by  the  sound  of  bacchanalian  revelry  out- 
side the  window.  I  looked  out  and  saw  a 
man  on  the  grassplot  in  front  of  the  house. 
He  was  just  able  to  move  —  and  howl  —  and 
his  frantic  struggles  to  get  on  his  feet  were 
funnier  than  Milligan's  attempts  to  put  on 
superior  airs. 

"  Ah,  the  inebriate  husband ! "  I  said  to 
the  sheriff,  who  agreed  with  me  that  it 
would  be  a  good  scheme  to  get  him  off  the 
lawn  and  into  the  house.  So  we  slipped 
on  enough  clothing  to  cover  the  law  and 
the  major  part  of  our  persons  and  went 
out.  The  serenader  was  light  weight  and 
we  carried  him  up  the  steps  without  diffi- 
culty. He  stopped  singing  long  enough  to 
roar: 

"  Whas-yer-doin'  —  lemme  go  —  lemme 
go,  I  tell  yer." 

"  Come  to  bed,"  I  said,  soothingly. 

"  Done  wan  ter  go  ter  bed  —  never  go  t' 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  193 

bed  Sat'day  night,"  he  hiccoughed.  "  This 
not  (hie)  my  bed." 

We  bore  him  into  the  front  hall,  and  laid 
him  down  to  get  a  fresh  hold  for  the  jour- 
ney upstairs.  He  was  happy  again  and 
started  a  new  song.  Just  then  a  light  ap- 
peared at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  I  saw 
the  landlady's  face  peering  over  the  balus- 
trade. In  my  most  courteous  manner  I 
asked : 

"  Shall  we  bring  him  upstairs,  madam  ?  " 

"  Who  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Your  husband. " 

She  did  not  reply,  but  another  voice  did. 
"  I  am  her  husband,  sir,"  and  another  head, 
with  a  jolly  face  and  a  big  moustache,  ap- 
peared beside  the  landlady's. 

We  dumped  our  operatic  load  across  the 
street  and  I  hid  my  shamed  head  in  the 
pillows,  making  a  sacred  vow  that  for  ever 
more  I  shall  keep  very  busy  attending  to 
my  own  affairs.  This  led  to  a  very  pleas- 
ant Sunday  for  me  —  and  the  sheriff  — 
however.  The  landlady's  husband  could 
take  a  joke  —  especially  when  it  was  on  me, 
and  at  breakfast  we  became  very  good 
friends.  He  invited  me  to  his  club  and  we 
—  and  the  legal  limb  —  spent  the  afternoon 


194  LETTERS    FROM   A  SON 

there.  His  face  grew  bigger  and  jollier 
each  hour,  and  finally  he  became  very  con- 
fidential. Referring  to  his  own  peccadil- 
loes, he  made  the  statement  that  he  had  the 
best-natured  wife  in  the  world.  I  had  no 
reason  to  controvert  this,  but  he  seemed  to 
think  that  I  doubted  it,  and  went  on  to 
accumulate  testimony. 

"  We've  never  had  a  quarrel  yet,  though 
we've  been  married  sixteen  year's,"  he  de- 
clared. "  I'll  bet  that  no  matter  what  I 
might  do  when  I  go  home,  she'd  smile 
through  it  all." 

This  didn't  interest  me,  but  my  legal 
guardian  seemed  curious.  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  doubt  our  friend.  It  wasn't 
long  before  they  had  patched  up  some  sort 
of  a  wager  between  them.  The  husband 
was  to  go  home  to  supper,  appear  intoxi- 
cated, raise  a  row,  break  dishes  and  other- 
wise generally  make  an  ass  of  himself.  If 
his  wife  kept  her  temper  it  was  on  the 
sheriff,  and  vice  versa. 

Bill  —  his  name  was  William  Jenks  — 
started  off  ahead.    We  were  to  follow  at  a 
distance  and  observe  results  from  the  yard. 
Bill  began  to  totter  and  sway  as  he  neared 
the  house,  and  presently  Mrs.  J.  ran  out  of 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  1 95 

the  front  gate  to  meet  him.  She  picked  up 
his  hat  from  the  ground,  brushed  it  and  put 
it  on,  and  then  kissed  him.  Then  she 
guided  his  uncertain  legs  into  the  house. 
When  we  reached  the  window  which 
looked  into  the  parlor  we  saw  Bill  sitting 
on  the  floor,  howling  incoherencies  at  his 
wife,  who  was  trying  to  help  him  pull  off 
his  shoes.  When  they  were  off  he  com- 
manded :  "  Put  'em  on  the  mantelpiece," 
and  she  did  it.  Then  he  got  up  and  stag- 
gered across  the  room  and  fell,  just  before 
he  reached  a  sofa. 

"  What  did  yer  pull  sofa  'way  for  ?  "  he 
howled. 

"  Oh,  William,  forgive  me.  I  didn't  know. 
I'm  so  awkward.  Did  you  hurt  yourself?  " 
And  she  tried  to  help  him  up.  But  he 
wouldn't  get  up,  and  continued  to  abuse 
her  like  a  pickpocket.  Finally  she  in- 
duced him  to  go  into  the  dining-room  and 
sit  down  at  the  supper  table.  As  a  pre- 
lude he  shied  a  teacup  past  her  head  and 
against  the  wall.  Then  he  pulled  away  the 
tablecloth  and  with  it  the  dishes,  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor  amid  the  ruins. 

What  did  that  wonder  of  a  woman  do  but 
plump  down  on  the  floor  in  front  of  him 


IQ6  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

and  say,  with  a  smile  as  of  gratified  pleas- 
ure, "Why,  William,  isn't  this  nice?  We 
haven't  eaten  on  the  floor  since  we  were 
married.  So  like  the  old  picnic  days ! " 
Then  she  tried  to  rearrange  the  broken 
crockery  and  rescue  the  supper.  It  was 
too  much  for  me,  and  I  guess  Bill  thought 
he  had  gone  far  enough,  for  he  began  to 
smile  and  abandoned  his  assumed  inebriety. 

"  Mary,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  brought 
home  a  couple  of  friends  to  supper.  They're 
outside  and  —  " 

"  Brought  home  friends  to  supper,"  cried 
his  wife,  jumping  to  her  feet,  "  brought  them 
home  to  supper,  did  you,  without  notice  to 
me,  when  you  knew  it  was  Sally's  afternoon 
out?  I'll  teach  you,"  and  she  set  both 
hands  in  his  hair  and  shook  him.  "  I've 
stood  your  freaks  for  sixteen  years  and  been 
patient  and  loving,  but  this  is  more  than 
human  nature  is  capable  of.  Friends  ?  No 
warning?  What  would  they  think  of 
me?" 

Our  entrance  relieved  the  tragedy,  but 
Jenks  was  terror-stricken.  The  surprise 
was  too  much  for  him.  For  the  first  time 
he  realized  that  even  the  most  docile  of 
women  have  reservations  and  that  every 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  1 97 

worm  has  some  turning  point.  He  finally 
explained  the  joke  and  it  was  received  with 
his  wife's  smiles.  He  was  desperately  anx- 
ious to  square  himself  and  then  and  there 
presented  her  with  twenty  dollars,  to  which 
the  sheriff  added  the  ten-dollar  bill  which 
he  insisted  he  had  lost  on  the  wager.  I  saw 
Jenks  the  following  evening.  "  You'll  never 
guess,"  he  said,  "  what  that  woman  did  with 
the  thirty  ?  " 

I  acknowledged  my  incapacity  to  cope 
with  the  subject. 

"  Bought  me  a  smoking-jacket,  a  meers- 
chaum pipe  and  three  boxes  of  Havanas. 
And,  my  boy,"  he  added,  "  I've  quit  drink- 
ing. She's  so  good  that  I'm  going  to  see 
all  I  can  of  her  in  my  lifetime,  for  we'll 
keep  house  separately  in  the  next  world." 

I  guess  he's  right,  for  they'll  certainly 
feel  called  upon  to  build  a  special  alcove 
in  heaven  when  she  reaches  there. 

Your  snappy  observation  that  the  poor- 
est men  on  earth  are  the  relations  of  mil- 
lionaires strikes  me  in  a  very  sensitive  spot. 
I  realize  its  truth,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  if  something  is  not  done  speedily  to 
decrease  the  discrepancy  between  my  in- 
come and  my  outgo,  there  will  be  a  sensa- 


198  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

tional  story  for  the  newspapers,  with  cuts 
—  cuts  of  you  and  me,  with  possibly  a  pic- 
ture of  the  hog  plant  thrown  in  for  decora- 
tive purposes.  If  you  think  this  would  be 
a  good  ad.,  I'll  play  the  cards  as  they  lay. 
If  not,  please  see  to  it  that  my  expense  ac- 
counts are  accepted  more  in  the  spirit  in 
which  they  are  made. 

My  ex-guardian,  the  sheriff,  has  given 
me  many  pointers  on  how  to  escape  the 
debt  trap  —  it  was  after  I  settled  his  par- 
ticular claim  —  but  I  don't  think  you'd 
care  to  have  me  get  a  reputation  as  a 
shirker  of  obligations.  Sometimes,  though, 
the  escapes  from  the  clutches  of  the  law 
are  very  amusing.  The  sheriff  tells  of  a 
good  one  that  happened  recently  in  Indian- 
apolis. It  seems  that  a  young  spendthrift 
was  arrested  for  debt  on  the  very  day  he 
was  to  be  married  to  a  wealthy  widow. 
Knowledge  of  his  plight  would  put  an  end 
to  his  expectations  in  this  direction,  and  he 
was  at  his  wits'  ends  as  the  two  officers  es- 
corted him  along  the  street. 

In  front  of  the  City  Hall  a  carriage  was 
standing  and  as  they  approached  the  mayor 
of  the  city  entered  it  and  conversed  for  a 
moment  through  the  window  with  a  friend. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  1 99 

Mr.  Spendthrift  had  an  inspiration  and 
said  to  the  officers :  "  You  know  that  gen- 
tleman who  got  into  that  carriage  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  one  of  them,  "It's  Mayor 
B ." 

"  Well,  he's  my  uncle,  and  if  I  ask  him 
he'll  see  me  out  of  this  thing.  You'll  take 
his  guarantee,  of  course. 

The  deputies  thought  it  would  be  satis- 
factory and  when  they  reached  the  car- 
riage the  men  hung  back.  The  young  man 
took  off  his  hat  and  put  his  head  into 
the  carriage  window  just  as  it  was  about  to 
start. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mayor,"  he  said, 
"  but  there  are  two  men  with  me  who  have 
influence  in  the  seventh  ward.  They  say 
they'll  be  glad  to  work  for  you  at  the  elec- 
tion next  week  if  you'll  give  them  any 
encouragement." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  mayor, "  bring  them 
here." 

The  spendthrift  beckoned  to  the  deputies 
and  they  approached.  The  mayor  looked 
them  over  and  said :  "  Come  around  to  my 
office  at  5  o'clock  this  afternoon  and  I'll 
fix  up  this  matter."  Then  he  drove  off  and 
the  spendthrift  borrowed  half  a  dollar  of 


LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

one  of  the  deputies,  went  and  got  shaved 
and  then  married. 

I  simply  mention  this  to  illustrate  to 
what  extremities  an  appetite  for  truffles  and 
mushrooms  may  lead  a  young  man  whose 
pocket  money  prescribes  cheese  sandwiches 
and  spinach.  For  the  honor  of  the  name 
I  must  not  be  permitted  to  be  set  down  as 
deficient  in  credit.  This  really  must  ap- 
peal to  you.  As  you  say,  a  man  must  not 
overwork  a  dollar,  and  the  thirty  of  them  I 
am  now  receiving  per  week  get  fatigued  to 
a  standstill  within  twenty-four  hours  after 
I  make  their  acquaintance. 

Yours  in  trust, 

P. 

P.  S.  I  would  respectfully  suggest  that 
you  do  not  show  this  letter  to  mother.  The 
story  of  Bill  Jenk's  wife  might  not  appeal 
to  her. 


LETTER   NO.   XV. 


LETTER  No.  XV. 

The  oddities  and  humors  of  railroad  travels  appeal 

so  strongly  to  Pierrepont  that  he  writes  his 

father  of 'them ,  as  well  as  of  a  breach- 

of-promise  suit. 

FALL  LAKE,  Mich.,  Sept.  7,  189 — 
Dear  Father : 

Replying  to  your  last  budget  of  aphor- 
ism and  advice,  I  must  say  that  it  pains  me 
somewhat  to  find  my  own  father  skeptical 
as  to  the  history  of  the  fish  I  caught  at 
Spring  Lake.  The  only  lies  I  have  ever 
told  thus  far  have  been  on  the  road  for 
Graham  &  Co.,  and  I'm  not  going  to  begin 
any  outside  prevaricating  on  such  trivial 
articles  as  fish.  By  the  way,  why  do  they 
use  the  term  "  fish  stories  "  as  a  generic 
description  for  falsehoods  ?  If  the  world 
only  knew  its  business,  "  pork  yarns " 
would  be  the  synonym  henceforth  and 
forevermore. 

But  a  truce  to  the  finny  tribe !  I  note  with 
joy  that  the  wisdom  of  the  "House"  has 
decreed  that  I  am  to  be  assistant  manager 


2O4  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

of  the  lard  department  on  my  return.  Now, 
to  be  honest,  there's  nothing  very  fascinat- 
ing about  tried-out  pig  fat,  but  the  pros- 
pects of  staying  in  good  old  Chicago  right 
along  atone  for  anything.  We  college 
men  at  first  condemn  our  city  because  it 
seems  the  right  and  proper  thing  to  do, 
after  Boston ;  but  let  me  tell  you  that  a 
few  months  on  the  road  will  knock  all  that 
nonsense  out  of  a  fellow  for  good,  and  he's 
willing  to  swear  that  old  "  Chi  "  is  the  near- 
est copy  of  the  New  Jerusalem  that's  yet 
been  invented. 

Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  on  your 
good  taste,  my  dear  father,  in  gilding  the 
lard  pail  with  the  fifty  per  you  mention. 
I  haven't  sold  so  very  many  goods,  but  I 
like  to  see  that  you  recognize  good  inten- 
tions. I  have  always  believed  that  the 
Graham  products  could  be  made  to  sell 
better  if  certain  imperfections  could  be 
eliminated,  and  these  I  have  tried  to  point 
out  to  you,  from  time  to  time.  It  speaks 
well  for  your  good  sense  that  you  haven't 
got  offended  at  my  blunt  speech.  Of 
course  I  can't  help  feeling  elated,  also,  at 
my  rapid  rise  in  the  business.  It  isn't 
every  young  man  who  can  climb  from  eight 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  2O5 

dollars  a  week  to  fifty  in  about  a  year;  it 
only  goes  to  prove  my  pet  theory  that  to 
the  son  of  the  "  old  man "  all  things  are 
possible. 

I'm  coming  back  to  town  with  the  firm 
determination  to  make  the  manager  of  the 
lard  department  look  like  three  battered 
dimes.  As  you  say,  it's  my  business  to  do 
my  work  so  well  that  I  can  run  the  depart- 
ment without  him,  and  I'm  going  to  bring 
that  about  pretty  deuced  quick,  because  I 
need  his  job.  I  rely  on  your  shrewd  sense 
of  economy  to  fire  him  the  moment  he  be- 
comes superfluous. 

Your  observation  to  the  effect  that  a 
man  who  can't  take  orders  can't  give  them, 
may  be  true  enough  in  the  pork-packing 
business,  but  did  you  ever  watch  a  Pullman 
car  conductor?  The  only  person  I  can 
conceive  of  giving  him  orders  is  the  porter, 
and  I  presume  there's  sufficient  esprit  de 
corps  to  lead  the  subordinate  functionary  to 
at  least  make  a  pretence  of  deference  due, 
and  take  out  all  his  bossing  on  the  passen- 
gers. As  you  must  be  aware  from  the  way 
I've  been  eating  my  way  through  mileage 
books,  I've  made  some  long  jumps  lately. 
It  was  necessary,  for  as  soon  as  I  gladdened 


2O6  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

your  paternal  heart  by  becoming  the  "  car 
lot  man  "  you  once  expressed  some  doubt 
of  my  ever  being,  I  saw  at  once  that  I  had 
no  business  in  towns  where  a  car  load  of 
anybody's  lard —  to  say  nothing  of  ours  — 
would  last  so  long  as  to  become  eventually 
a  public  nuisance.  My  long  railroad  trips 
have  broadened  my  point  of  view  of  life 
materially,  and  have  incidentally  given  me 
no  little  amusement. 

I  tell  you,  father,  outside  of  your  letters 
there's  no  place  where  human  nature  can 
be  studied  so  well  as  on  a  railroad  train; 
whether  it  is  the  nervous  strain  of  travel, 
or  the  clickety-click  of  the  wheels,  or  the 
rapid  motion,  a  man  on  a  train  comes 
pretty  near  acting  out  his  real  nature.  It's 
pretty  hard  to  be  a  hero  to  a  "  Limited  " 
conductor.  Thanks  to  the  methods  of 
American  railroading,  democracy  is  at  its 
zenith  on  the  cars.  True,  we  have  grada- 
tions, but  the  people  who  ride  second-class 
are  seldom  appealing,  while  the  parlor  car 
is  really  very  little  of  a  barrier  against  the 
touching  elbows  of  the  most  diverse  ele- 
ments of  society.  For  a  collection  of  all 
sorts,  commend  me  to  the  parlor  coach  of 
an  express.  You  are  quite  as  likely  to  be 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  2O7 

bled  in  a  game  of  freeze-out  in  the  smoker 
next  to  the  buffet,  as  you  are  in  a  less  ex- 
pensive portion  of  the  train. 

There  was  a  very  merry  crowd  of  travel- 
ling men  on  the  "  Gilt-Edge  "  Express  the 
other  afternoon  when  I  came  through.  It 
was  a  hot  day  and  very  few  of  the  boys 
took  the  parlor,  preferring  the  greater  free- 
dom from  constraint  of  the  ordinary 
smoker.  If  this  had  not  been  the  case, 
perhaps  the  incident  which  I  am  to  relate 
—  merely  as  a  warning  to  you,  for  I  know 
you  take  the  "  Gilt-Edged  "  occasionally  — 
might  not  have  occurred. 

The  train  stops  at  the  Junction,  you 
know,  about  ten  minutes,  and  the  majority 
of  the  boys  got  down  to  stretch  their  legs 
on  the  platform  and  get  a  bit  of  air,  for 
even  Indiana  air  is  better  than  no  air  at 
all.  As  I  strolled  along,  smoking,  my  at- 
tention was  attracted  by  a  young  woman 
who  was  pacing  slowly  up  and  down  the 
extreme  end  of  the  platform.  As  I  am  not 
especially  observant  of  the  fair  sex,  the 
fact  that  I  noticed  her  at  all  is  proof  that 
she  was  considerably  out  of  the  ordinary 
in  the  feminine  line.  In  fact,  she  was  ripe 
fruit  from  the  very  top  layer. 


2C>8  'LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

She  had  a  music  roll  under  her  arm,  and 
a  tailor-made  gown  that,  fitting  perfectly, 
showed  that  not  quite  all  the  modern  Ven- 
uses  have  been  corralled  for  the  "show- 
girl" department  of  musical  comedy.  It 
was  little  wonder,  then,  that  one  of  the 
band  of  travelling  men  should  have  dis- 
entangled himself  from  his  fellows  and 
extended  his  promenade  up  into  the  reser- 
vation affected  by  the  Beauty,  for  closer 
inspection  subsequently  proved  that  she 
was  entitled  to  the  name  and  to  the  initial 
capital  I've  employed.  The  two  paced  up 
and  down,  as  people  will,  and  passed  each 
other  several  times.  It  chanced  that  just 
as  this  passing  was  about  to  occur  again, 
the  music  roll  fell  to  the  platform.  A 
raised  hat,  a  returned  music  roll,  a  smile,  a 
murmured  "thank  you,"  were  the  preludes 
to  a  more  extended  conversation. 

I  noted  that  at  the  fall  of  the  music  roll 
a  slight  laugh  arose  from  several  of  the 
older  fellows,  but  I  paid  no  attention  to 
it  at  the  time,  being  otherwise  engaged. 
When  the  train  started  the  young  woman 
was  helped  into  the  parlor  car  by  her  new 
acquaintance,  and  provided  with  a  seat 
which,  as  he  put  it,  he  had  secured  for  his 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  2OQ 

sister,  who,  at  the  last  moment,  had  post- 
poned her  journey.  He  was  rather  young, 
this  travelling  man,  so  his  trepidation  is 
explained.  It  was  scarcely  necessary,  as  I 
have  since  learned,  for  him  to  sneak  out 
and  surreptitiously  pay  for  both  seats.  It 
was  surprising  how  this  little  incident 
affected  the  railroad  business.  Almost  all 
the  drummer  clan  moved  up  into  the  par- 
lor coach.  I  imagined  at  the  time  that 
they  envied  their  associate  his  prize  and 
wished  at  least  to  share  his  very  evident 
satisfaction  by  witnessing  it. 

The  young  man  was  most  gallant,  and 
everything  that  the  train  boy  offered,  from 
the  latest  novel  to  chocolates  and  smelling 
salts,  was  left  in  the  young  woman's  cus- 
tody. Never  have  I  seen  a  train  boy  who 
made  as  many  trips  in  a  given  time.  The 
dining  car  had  been  put  on  at  the  Junction 
—  the  train,  you  know,  gets  in  just  between 
hay  and  grass  on  the  meal  question  —  and 
the  porter's  announcement  had  scarcely 
left  his  lips  before  the  couple  were  at  the 
table.  Most  of  the  boys  went,  too,  and 
watched  with  evident  delight  the  exquisite 
taste  and  lavish  appetite  with  which  the 
young  woman  selected  from  the  a  la  carte 


2IO  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

menu.  I  was  one  of  the  few  who  saw  the 
check  after  it  was  all  over,  and  its  duplicate 
would  practically  annihilate  half  a  week's 
salary  for  me. 

It  was  over  quite  soon,  for,  just  as  the 
pair  had  begun  to  sip  their  cordial,  the 
train  whistled  and  slowed  down.  I  thought 
there  must  have  been  an  accident,  for  the 
train  is  an  express  with  no  stops  indicated 
between  the  Junction  and  the  terminus. 
But  the  young  woman  was  better  posted,  for 
she  interrupted  the  flow  of  conversation 
and  liqueur,  by  gathering  up  the  benefi- 
cences heaped  upon  her,  for  sundry  con- 
siderations, by  the  train  boy.  The  young 
man  expostulated,  but  she  nodded  her 
head  and  said  something  in  a  low  tone. 
Just  then  the  conductor  of  the  regular  train 
came  into  the  dining  car. 

"  Oh,  there  you  are,  Bessie !  I  thought 
I'd  find  you  here.  Hurry  now !  Remem- 
ber, you  nearly  got  a  fall  yesterday  by  be- 
ing slow." 

The  car  was  rosy  with  grinning  faces  by 
this  time,  but  the  red  flush  on  the  young 
man's  cheeks  was  certainly  the  most  con- 
spicuous feature.  But  I  am  pleased  to  say 
that  he  kept  a  stiff  upper  lip  and  assisted 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  211 

the  young  woman  off  the  train.  When  he 
returned  it  was  on  the  run  —  in  the  gather- 
ing up  of  the  books,  boxes  and  magazines, 
the  young  woman  had  forgotten  her  music 
roll.  He  had  to  throw  it  at  her  as  the 
train  rolled  ahead.  There  was  no  hope 
for  him ;  he  had  to  go  back  into  the  dining 
car,  for  the  check  had  not  been  paid. 

As  he  opened  the  door  he  met  the  porter 
and  hurled  one  question  at  him.  "  Why 
in  thunder  did  the  train  stop  here  ? " 

"  Stops  ebry  day,  sir,"  answered  the  grin- 
ning son  of  Ham.  "  Dere's  a  bridge  ahead 
an'  we  has  to  slow  down,  an'  as  Miss 
Bessie's  de  engineer's  daughter,  he  makes 
it  a  full  stop  so  she  kin  ride  home  on  the 
Express." 

It  was  really  pitiful  what  the  young  man 
was  forced  to  endure  as  he  walked  back  to 
his  table.  It  is  but  simple  justice  to  him 
to  say  that  he  stood  his  ground  bravely, 
doubled  the  denomination  of  his  check  for 
the  benefit  of  his  guyers,  and  tried  to  drop 
vague  hints  as  to  future  carriage  rides. 

It  was  of  no  avail,  however,  for  every  man 
jack  of  them,  except  himself,  knew  that 
Bessie  was  an  established  institution  on 
the  "  Gilt  Edge,"  and  that  it  was  accounted 


212  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

a  pretty  dull  trip  when  she  failed  to  add  to 
the  revenue  of  the  dining  car.  Of  course 
she  is  doing  a  certain  sort  of  good  in  the 
world,  on  her  daily  trip  from  her  music 
lesson,  in  taking  some  of  the  conceit  out 
of  fresh  young  men,  but  I  really  think  it 
would  be  quite  as  well  for  her  if  she  rode 
on  the  engine  with  her  father. 

The  balance  of  that  run  was  devoted  to 
stories  of  somewhat  similar  experiences. 
Job  Withers  —  he  is  sure  to  be  around 
when  anything  happens  —  told  one  on 
himself  which  sounded  a  bit  apochryphal, 
but  is  nevertheless  worth  repeating,  as 
illustrating  how  easy  it  is  to  simplify  a 
situation  by  speaking  the  right  word  at  the 
right  time.  As  Job  tells  it,  he  draws  a 
verbal  picture  of  a  very  pretty  girl  in  a 
crowded  car  and  confesses  to  having  hon- 
ored her  with  glances  more  admiring  than 
strictly  decorous. 

"She  was  a  beauty,  boys,  and  no  mis- 
take, and  I  envied  the  old  lady  who  sat 
with  her.  When  the  old  lady  left  the  train 
I  sauntered  out  upon  the  platform  and 
stayed  there  till  the  train  slowed  down  for 
the  next  stop.  Then  I  wandered  in  again 
and,  stopping  beside  the  young  Hebe,  I 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  213 

inquired  in  my  most  dulcet  tones,  '  Is  this 
seat  engaged,  miss  ? ' 

"  She  looked  up  straight  into  my  face, 
and  her  baby-blue  eyes  seemed  to  be 
making  a  bill  of  lading  of  me.  Then  she 
spoke  up  in  a  sweet,  clear,  distinct  voice, 
that  must  have  been  heard  in  every  part  of 
the  car.  '  No,'  she  said,  *  this  seat  isn't 
engaged,  but  I  am,  and  he  is  just  getting 
aboard  the  train.' 

"  And  he  was,  six  feet  seven  of  him,  with 
hands  like  friend  Piggy's  hams.  I  tell 
you,  boys,"  concluded  Job,  "  I  felt  about  as 
cheap  as  the  man  who  raised  a  warranted 
watch-dog  from  a  pup,  taught  him  to  fetch 
and  carry  things,  and,  when  burglars  broke 
into  the  house,  discovered  their  presence 
without  his  dog's  assistance,  and  found 
that  the  faithful  brute  was  doing  credit  to 
his  training  by  trotting  about  after  the 
burglars  with  their  lantern  in  his  mouth." 

I  got  quite  a  shock  to-day  by  the  receipt 
of  a  letter,  forwarded  from  Chicago,  from 
one  Silas  Pettingill,  attorney  at  Doolittle's 
Mills,  Ind.,  informing  me  that  Miss  Ver- 
bena Philpot  had  decided  to  sue  for  breach 
of  promise  in  the  sum  of  $10,000.  The 
only  way  in  which  this  calamity  could  be 


214  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

staved  off,  according  to  Mr.  Pettingill,  was 
by  my  going  to  Doolittle's  Mills  and  mak- 
ing "  other  arrangements,"  which  I  firmly 
decline  to  do.  Verbena. is  all  right  on  her 
native  heath,  but  I  fear  that  transplanting 
her  to  Chicago  wouldn't  be  healthful  for 
her  or  me.  Talk  about  your  simple,  con- 
fiding farmers  and  all  that  sort  of  rubbish  ! 
I  believe  that  if  old  "  Vebe  "  Philpot  should 
come  to  Chicago  and  walk  up  and  down 
State  street  a  couple  of  times,  he  would 
have  the  biggest  bunco  artist  in  town 
skinned  to  his  last  nickel  before  sundown. 
As  it  is,  however,  the  thing  looks  rather 
ugly,  and  I  don't  know  but  I  had  better  be 
absent  from  home  for  a  year  or  so.  Why 
couldn't  I  be  made  manager  of  your  Lon- 
don branch  instead  of  monkeying  with  the 
lard  department  ? 

Your  threatened  son,  P. 
P.  S.  In  some  roundabout  way  you  may 
hear  of  the  train  escapade  with  the  engi- 
neer's daughter.  The  boys  on  the  road 
are  no  respecters  of  persons  and  are  likely 
to  make  most  any  one  the  hero  of  a  story. 
Should  some  hint  connecting  me  with  the 
affair  reach  you,  it  will  be  only  necessary 
to  recall  that  you  heard  the  story  first  from 
me. 


LETTER  NO.   XVI. 


LETTER  No.  XVI. 

The  Game  of  Golf,  a  most  peculiar  banquet,  a 
social  lion's  fall  and  his  escape  from  threaten- 
ing legal  meshes,  inspire  Pierre- 
ponfs  pen. 

CHICAGO,  Sept.  20,  189  — 
Dear  Father: 

Your  little  joke  about  being  almost  well 
and  about  broke  at  Carlsbad  strikes  me  as 
about  the  limit  in  sarcastic  humor.  It's 
always  so  easy  for  millionaires  to  talk  about 
being  broke,  that  they're  about  the  only 
ones  who  do  it.  It's  the  same  with  clothes, 
you  know.  If  I  dressed  like  Russell  Sage, 
you  wouldn't  have  me  in  the  lard  depart- 
ment ten  minutes.  On  the  whole,  I  guess 
you'll  get  back  somehow,  even  if  you  have 
to  draw  on  London  for  a  thousand  or  two. 

I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I'm  doing 
great  work  in  my  new  position.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  manager  of  the  lard 
section  could  do  without  me  or  not,  but 
I'm  dead  sure  I  could  do  without  him,  for 


2l8  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

a  more  pompous  ass  never  yet  brayed  in  an 
office.  He  told  me  to-day  that  I  ought  to 
be  very  thankful  for  the  accident  of  birth, 
and  I  countered  on  him  by  telling  him  he 
ought  to  be  devilish  glad  my  father  was  a 
good-natured  man.  I  think  that  when  you 
get  home,  we'll  revolutionize  this  depart- 
ment. I  can  already  see  that  there  is  great 
waste  going  on  here ;  the  amount  of  hog 
fat  they  are  putting  into  the  lard  is  simply 
scandalous. 

While  I  think  about  it,  I  want  to  ask 
you  if  you  can't  find  a  good  place  for  my 
old  college  friend,  Courtland  Warrington. 
Court  is  a  perfect  gentleman,  and  would 
be  an  ornament  to  the  packing  house,  if 
you  could  only  manage  to  keep  him  out 
of  Milligan's  way.  I  think  that  wild  Irish- 
man would  kill  him  if  he  ever  caught  sight 
of  his  stockings.  Of  course  Courtland 
ought  to  have  something  that  wouldn't 
grate  on  his  refined  tastes  and  dignified 
style.  Pasting  labels  on  cans  might  do, 
but  I  don't  think  sorting  livers  would 
appeal  to  him.  Anyway,  I  rely  on  you 
to  fix  up  something  nice  and  genteel  for 
Court;  he  is  very  unfortunate  in  having 
an  unsuccessful  father. 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  219 

I'll  tell  the  Beef  House  people  to  look 
up  the  export  cattle  business,  as  you  re- 
quest, and  tell  it  to  'em  good  and  hard.  If 
there's  anything  I  like  to  do  it's  to  give 
orders  to  fellows  that  are  not  under  me ;  I 
believe  this  shows  that  I  have  the  making 
of  a  successful  business  man  concealed 
within  me.  I'd  like  to  know,  however, 
what  this  General  Principle  is  you  speak 
of  as  being  in  my  department ;  up  to  now 
I  never  thought  there  was  any  principle 
in  it. 

Don't  worry  that  I  am  to  become  a  golf 
maniac,  dear  dad.  My  first  day  on  the 
links  was  my  last,  and  the  article  you  saw 
in  that  Chicago  paper  about  my  appear- 
ance as  a  putter  was  very  misleading. 
The  fact  is  that  I  had  gotten  half  around 
the  promenade  when  I  unfortunately  al- 
lowed my  brassy-niblick,  or  something  of 
that  sort,  to  come  into  contact  with  my 
caddy's  head,  and  the  game  ended  at  the 
moment  he  was  carried  away  on  a  stretcher. 
The  caddy's  father,  a  bullet-headed  Dutch- 
man, who  was  utterly  unamenable  to  reason, 
had  me  arrested  for  assault  and  battery, 
and  it  made  terrible  inroads  into  my  sur- 
plus to  get  him  to  withdraw  the  charge 


22O  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

and  to  square  the  police  reporters.  No 
golf  for  Pierrepont,  so  you  may  calm  your 
perturbed  spirit.  If  I  want  highballs,  I 
know  where  I  can  connect  with  'em,  and 
the  place  isn't  a  thousand  miles  from  the 
packing  house,  either.  Curiously,  they  have 
a  concoction  there  known  as  a  "  Graham 
Fertilizer."  I  tried  one,  and  I  must  say 
that  the  man  who  could  drink  two  must 
have  a  stomach  of  brass. 

Speaking  of  the  stomach  reminds  me 
of  a  banquet.  I  can't  imagine  how  it 
happened,  but  when  the  news  leaked  out 
that  you  had  gone  to  Europe,  so  soon  after 
calling  me  in  from  the  road,  the  impression 
gained  currency  in  some  quarters  that  I 
had  been  placed  in  charge  at  the  "  House." 
You  will  appreciate  that  it's  a  pretty  leath- 
ery sort  of  a  proposition  to  have  to  go 
around  denying  a  report  that  your  own 
father  has  done  the  square  thing  by  you, 
and  explaining  that  you  are  in  reality  only 
first  assistant  manager  of  the  lard  depart- 
ment, and  that  a  salt-pickled  Celt  named 
Milligan  is  still  so  far  above  me  that  I  get 
a  crick  in  the  neck  looking  up  at  his 
exaltedness. 

So  I  decided  that  the  best  thing  I  could 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  221 

do  was  not  to  deny  the  rumor  and  to  ac- 
cept all  the  honors  likely  to  be  thrust  upon 
me.  This  may  be  obtaining  distinction  un- 
der false  pretences,  but  it's  less  embarrass- 
ing than  confessing  that  one's  father  is  so 
thoroughly  under  the  domination  of  a  man 
who  eats,  drinks,  sleeps  and  thinks  pig,  as 
to  ignore  the  claims  of  blood  and  heredity. 
What  could  I  do,  for  instance,  when  a 
number  of  friends  proposed  to  give  a 
banquet  in  my  honor  ?  If  I  had  refused 
they  would  have  said  that  I  was  a  hog 
myself,  besides  being  in  the  business ;  for 
people  who  get  up  banquets  for  other 
people  are  really  only  seeking  an  excuse 
to  give  themselves  a  good  time.  How 
could  I  disappoint  them? 

Anyway,  the  banquet  came  off  on  the 
appointed  date.  It  was  really  an  elaborate 
affair,  the  sixty  guests  sitting  at  tables 
fairly  buried  in  flowers.  It  was  doubtless 
thought  to  be  a  delicate  compliment  to  the 
guest  of  the  evening  —  meaning  your  only 
—  that  a  few  feet  down  the  table  at  whose 
head  I  sat,  and  facing  towards  me,  stood 
the  life-sized  figure  of  a  hog,  done  in  white 
roses  and  with  a  pail  of  our  lard  in  its 
mouth  ;  but  I  submit  that  there  are  better 


222  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

appetizers  than  a  reminder  of  the  source  of 
our  prosperity.  I  accepted  the  situation 
and  swallowed  the  pig —  metaphorically,  of 
course  —  with  all  the  grace  I  could  assume. 

The  menu  card  at  my  plate  was  an  ele- 
gant affair,  evidently  handwork,  and  was 
different  in  design  from  those  of  the  others, 
although  I  was  kept  too  busy  in  conversa- 
tion with  my  neighbors  to  read  it.  The 
service  of  the  dinner  was  perfect,  the  well- 
trained  waiters  moving  noiselessly  to  and 
fro  and  depositing  the  various  courses 
without  a  word.  A  special  attendant 
had  evidently  been  assigned  to  me  and 
I  appreciated  the  distinction.  The  food 
that  he  served  me,  however,  was,  to  say  the 
least,  peculiar.  The  soup  tasted  queer  — 
like  medicine;  the  oysters  were  replaced 
by  curious  tasting  lumps  served  on  shells, 
while  the  fish  course  was  fishy  enough  in 
smell,  but  tasteless. 

I  had  eaten  practically  nothing,  and  when 
the  entrees  brought  me  only  a  spoonful  of 
something  that  looked  surprisingly  like 
hash,  I  looked  around  at  the  other  fellows. 
I  saw  twinkling  eyes,  some  of  which  fell 
upon  the  plates  in  front  of  their  owners. 
A  glance  at  the  plates  of  my  nearest  neigh- 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  223 

bors  showed  that  they  were  being  served 
with  quite  different  food  from  that  which 
reached  me.  I  began  to  smell  something 
familiar,  and  surreptitiously  glanced  at  my 
menu.  The  first  thing  that  struck  my  eye 
was  this  line  in  gilt  letters  at  the  bottom : 

"This  dinner  prepared  from  recipes  in 
Graham's  celebrated  booklet,  '  100  Dainty 
Dishes  from  a  Can.'  " 

You  should  hear  the  roar  that  went  up, 
as  the  crowd  saw  that  I  was  no  longer  shut 
out  of  their  executive  session.  I  could  do 
no  less  than  order  up  a  case  of  wine  (which 
you,  of  course,  will  pay  for  and  charge  to 
advertising  account),  and  after  that  they  let 
me  have  something  to  eat.  It's  a  terrible 
thing  to  have  one's  father's  business  chick- 
ens come  home  to  roost  so  frequently.  I 
did  not  recover  from  this  affair  for  two 
days,  which  will  explain  the  absence  from 
the  ofHce,  of  which  I  have  no  doubt  Milli- 
gan  has  duly  informed  you. 

I  have  had  a  hearty  laugh  over  your  story 
of  Hank  Smith  and  his  attempt  to  butt  into 
Boston  society  with  money,  a  brass  band 
and  fireworks.  Hank  made  the  great  mis- 
take of  thinking  that  noise  would  go  very 
far  on  Beacon  street.  And  this  just  nat- 


224  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

urally  reminds  me  of  Baron  Bonski,  a  self- 
made  social  lion,  who  had  Boston's  upper- 
tendom  on  tiptoe  about  the  time  I  was  a 
freshman  in  college.  Bonski's  method  was 
the  very  antithesis  of  Hank's,  and  it  worked 
as  long  as  he  chose  to  have  it. 

The  Baron  floated  gently  into  Boston 
one  spring  day,  armed  with  letters  of  intro- 
duction to  a  few  of  the  literatiirom  men  of 
prominence  in  Europe.  He  straightway 
attended  various  "afternoons"  of  poets, 
artists  and  Bohemian  philosophers.  He 
was  a  little  chap  with  a  sad,  pale  face,  dark 
and  soulful  eyes,  a  voice  as  mellow  as 
new  cider,  and  a  gift  of  gab  unceasing  as 
the  flow  of  the  tides.  He  hinted  at  tragic 
love  affairs  and  allowed  it  to  get  around 
that  he  had  been  expelled  from  Russia  for 
revolutionary  work.  He  was  modest  and 
retiring,  and  the  more  he  retired  at  the  liter- 
ary functions  the  more  people  tumbled  over 
themselves  to  dig  him  out.  He  made  a  dis- 
tinct hit  without  doing  anything  in  par- 
ticular, except  to  look  pensive  and  sow  a 
crop  of  romantic  rumors. 

The  Baron  quickly  got  next  the  residence 
problem  in  Boston.  He  hired  a  room  in  a 
side  street,  just  far  enough  off  Beacon 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  225 

street  to  be  cheap,  and  just  near  enough 
to  catch  the  sacred  aroma  of  that  classic 
thoroughfare.  He  filled  up  his  place  with 
Oriental  toggery,  and  kept  it  lighted  dimly 
and  religiously  with  queer  Eastern  lanterns. 
A  mysterious  odor  always  hung  over  the 
apartment.  Here  the  Baron  began  to  re- 
ceive the  swells  at  five  o'clock  teas,  over 
which  he  presided  with  a  huge  samovar. 
The  thing  was  so  new,  so  captivating,  so 
full  of  charm,  that  half  the  society  women 
in  town,  including  Mrs.  "  Bob  "  Tiller,  the 
leading  lady  of  the  whole  bunch,  used  to 
drop  in  quite  informally. 

They  do  say  that  the  Baron  became 
pretty  well  acquainted  with  the  interiors, 
not  to  speak  of  boudoirs,  of  a  good  many  of 
the  great  houses  in  town,  and  that  his  liv- 
ing expenses  were  pretty  small  during  his 
first  year  in  Boston. 

But  in  an  evil  hour  Baron  Bonski  fell. 
He  decided  that  he  wanted  more  money,  and 
he  could  conceive  no  better  way  of  getting 
it  than  by  writing  novels.  He  found  a  pub- 
lisher easily  enough,  and  then  he  used  his 
knowledge  of  society  people  for  his  books. 
He  paraded  the  foibles  of  his  friends  under 
thin  disguises,  and  even  trotted  out  Mrs. 
"  Bob  "  as  one  of  his  leading  characters. 


226  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

The  novels  were  pretty  poor  stuff,  on 
the  whole,  but  they  got  everybody  hot,  and 
the  Baron's  social  star  went  down  behind 
the  horizon  with  a  thud.  Then  his  credit- 
ors began  to  worry  him,  his  later  books 
failed,  ugly  stories  about  his  fraudulent 
title  got  around,  and  finally  a  brother 
novelist  lampooned  him.  At  last  the  town, 
which  had  warmed  toward  him  at  first,  got 
too  hot  to  hold  him,  and  he  resigned  in 
favor  of  the  next  impostor. 

I  simply  mention  the  Baron's  case  to 
show  you  that  you  can  get  into  Boston 
society  all  right  by  knowing  just  how  to  do 
it,  but  that  you've  got  to  stick  to  your 
original  role  if  you  want  to  stay  there. 

You  will  be  gratified  to  learn  that  the 
little  difficulty  with  Verbena  Philpot  and 
her  pa  is  at  an  end.  Although,  when  I  asked 
your  advice  on  how  to  meet  the  absurd 
charge,  you  politely  informed  me  that  it 
was  my  breach-of -promise  suit,  I  know 
you  will  be  glad  not  to  find  this  particular 
Verbena  blooming  beneath  your  roof-tree. 
When  you  refused  to  aid  me  with  your  vast 
experience,  I  went  to  see  George  Damon, 
who  graduated  from  Harvard  Law  in  my 
sophomore  year.  I  told  him  the  facts  and 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  227 

he  looked  so  solemn  that  I  made  up  my 
mind  that  all  was  over,  and  I  tried  to  de- 
cide between  Canada  and  South  America 
as  a  place  of  residence.  He  never  even 
laughed  when  I  told  him  that  old  man 
Philpot  had  the  reputation  of  bribing  the 
drivers  of  rural  conveyances  to  lose  a  tire 
off  a  wheel  when  they  were  driving  by  his 
place  with  an  eligible  stranger  as  passen- 
ger. 

"  You  won't  marry  the  girl  ?  "  he  asked. 
With  as  much  courtesy  to  Verbena  as  I 
could  at  the  time  command,  I  replied  in 
the  negative. 

"  How  much  can  you  give  to  settle  the 
thing? "  came  next.  I  said  almost  any  sum, 
but  it  would  have  to  be  in  expectancy,  for 
you  had  definitely  declared  yourself  against 
any  appropriation  to  take  up  mortgages  for 
indigent  farmers  with  beguiling  daugh- 
ters. 

"  But  you  must  get  out  of  this  without 
publicity,"  he  said.  "  You'd  be  the  laugh- 
ing stock  of  the  town." 

I  admitted  it  sadly  and  he  said  he  would 
do  what  he  could.  He  began  by  writing 
letters,  but  Papa  Philpot  was  evidently 
too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught  by  legal  chaff. 


228  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

It  was  settle  up,  or  marry  and  settle  down, 
and  that  settled  it.  Finally,  Damon  told 
me  that  there  was  only  one  chance  for  me. 
He  would  go  down  to  Doolittle's  Mills  and 
see  the  old  man  in  person  and  try  and  ar- 
gue him  out  of  it.  I  was  deeply  grateful 
that  he  should  make  it  such  a  personal 
matter,  but  he  said  it  wasn't  much,  he 
needed  a  vacation  anyway. 

Well,  he  went  about  three  weeks  ago 
and  I  accompanied  him  to  the  railroad 
station  in  a  great  state  of  nervousness. 
Three  days  later  I  received  a  letter  from 
him  stating  that,  although  he  had  not 
sounded  the  old  man  yet,  he  had  some 
hopes.  Two  other  letters  reached  me  with- 
in the  next  week,  but  no  definite  result 
had  been  attained. 

Then  I  heard  no  more  and  for  the  last 
fortnight  I  have  dreamt  of  bridal  wreaths 
that  changed  into  halters  and  wedding-cake 
with  iron  bars  embedded  in  the  frosting. 
Yesterday  I  received  this  telegram : 

"NIAGARA  FALLS,  Sept.  19. 

I  am  on  my  wedding  tour.  Verbena  sends  kind 
regards. 

George  Damon." 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  22Q 

I  am  much  relieved,  but  my  mind  will 
not  be  at  complete  rest  till  I  find  out 
whether  Damon  is  a  modern  martyr  or  just 
plain  damn  fool. 

Your  freed  son, 

Pierrepont. 

P.  S.  I  wonder  if  Damon  —  but  there 
are  some  things  in  life  before  which  even 
the  most  riotous  imagination  falters. 


LETTER   NO.   XVII. 


LETTER  No.  XVII. 

A  boomerang  wager,  a  story  of  Illinois  justice ,  and 

a  futile  attempt  at  small  economy ',  furnish 

the  inspiration  for  PierreponF  s 

correspon  dence . 

CHICAGO,  Oct.  21,  189 — 
Dear  Father: 

The  enclosed  clippings  will  doubtless 
prove  even  more  explanatory  to  you  than 
to  me.  I  regret  to  learn  from  them  and 
others — for  all  the  newspapers  had  it  — 
that  you  are  being  squeezed  by  being  short 
on  November  lard.  Couldn't  you  substi- 
tute some  of  the  September  variety  that  we 
have  been  unable  to  sell  ?  It  is  naturally 
surprising  to  learn  that  you  have  become 
so  involved,  when  I  recall  the  wealth  of 
good  advice  you  have  given  me  to  avoid 
this  sort  of  thing.  I  realize  that  you  have 
the  justification  of  a  long  line  of  precedent 
in  not  practicing  what  you  preach,  but  do 
you  think  it  wise  to  jeopardize  the  future 
of  the  "House  "  by  being  mixed  up  in  deals 


234  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

of  this  sort,  especially  when  you  are  not  at 
home  to  look  after  them  ?  Of  course,  had 
you  placed  the  matter  in  my  charge,  the 
conditions  to-day  would  be  quite  different. 

The  gambling  mania  —  and  what  is  deal- 
ing in  futures  of  grain  or  pork  but  gam- 
bling?—  is  certainly  a  terrible  disease  to 
encourage.  No  one  who  begins  knows 
where  he  will  leave  off.  Of  course  I  do 
not  presume  to  comment  on  your  conduct ; 
these  remarks  are  purely  impersonal ;  but 
I  must  admit  that  I  am  glad  you  did  not 
include  Monte  Carlo  in  your  European 
itinerary.  The  late  John  T.  Raymond,  the 
actor,  used  to  say  that  he'd  gambled  away 
several  acres  of  business  blocks.  Not  that 
he  ever  owned  any,  but  he  might  have  done 
so  had  he  not  gambled.  For  he  lost,  as 
every  man  who  gambles  does  in  the  long 
run,  I  am  told.  He  would  bet  on  anything, 
from  the  time  of  day  to  the  complexion  of 
the  next  person  to  turn  a  corner. 

His  infirmity  was  well  known  in  the 
theatrical  profession  and  sometimes  advan- 
tage was  taken  of  it  to  lay  pre-arranged 
wagers  in  which  Raymond  must  get  the 
worst  of  it.  A  veteran  actor  whom  I  met 
the  other  evening  tells  of  an  incident  of 


TO  HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  23$ 

this  sort.  It  occurred  here  in  Chicago  years 
ago,  when  Raymond  was  playing  "Mul- 
berry Sellers  "  at  McVickers.  One  after- 
noon he  came  into  the  hotel  office  and  sat 
down  to  chat  with  some  friends.  As  he 
crossed  one  leg  over  the  other,  a  particu- 
larly striking  pattern  of  fancy  sock  was 
exposed  to  view.  Some  one  commented 
on  the  brilliant  colors  and  Raymond  held 
up  his  foot  and  looked  at  it  admiringly. 

"  Isn't  it  great  ? "  he  said.  "  I  found  that 
in  Wanamaker's  in  Philadelphia.  I  guess 
they  had  the  only  line,  for  I've  never  seen 
a  duplicate  of  the  pattern." 

"Come  now,  Mr.  Raymond,"  spoke  up  a 
young  actor.  "  They  don't  have  all  the 
good  things  in  Philadelphia.  Chicago  has 
anything  that  any  city  has." 

"  Most  things,  young  man,"  laughed  Ray- 
mond, "  but  not  a  stocking  like  this,"  and 
he  surveyed  it  again  critically.  "  No  sir-ee, 
there's  not  another  stocking  like  it  in 
Chicago,  I'll  bet." 

"What  will  you  bet?"  asked  the  young 
man  quickly,  with  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  anything,"  answered  Raymond. 

"  Cigars  for  the  crowd  ? " 

"  Certainly,  and  the  best  in  the  house," 
agreed  the  actor. 


236  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

"You  bet,  Mr.  Raymond,  that  there's 
not  another  stocking  in  Chicago  like  that 
one  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  the  one  on 
your  other  foot?"  cried  the  young  man, 
triumphantly,  while  a  roar  of  laughter  went 
up  from  the  bystanders. 

"Well,"  drawled  Raymond,  "strangely 
enough,  young  man,  you  have  propounded 
a  conundrum  for  which  I've  been  unable  to 
find  an  answer.  What  is  the  matter  with 
the  stocking  on  my  other  foot?  This  is 
the  way  it  came  back  from  the  laundry." 
He  pulled  up  his  trouser  leg  and  exhibited 
a  faded  stocking  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  exposed  to  some  powerful  bleach. 
"This  certainly  isn't  like  the  other  one. 
Now  if  there  is  one  in  Chicago  I'd  like  to 
have  it,  for  I  never  did  care  for  a  fancy- 
matched  span." 

The  young  man  had  no  zest  for  further 
search.  His  own  joke,  the  inspiration  of 
the  moment,  had  turned  upon  him  and  the 
arrival  of  the  cigars  he  knew  to  be  the  best 
antidote  for  the  general  laughter  and  jests 
of  which  he  was  the  victim. 

This  instance  of  circumstances  and  a 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  237 

laundry  conspiring  to  defeat  a  practical 
joker  may  not  have  a  dyed-in-the-wool 
moral,  but  it  has  a  philosophical  ring  and  I 
have  often  noted  that  your  wise  saws  and 
modern  instances  often  sound  better  than 
they  look  when  dissected.  Par  example,  I 
fail  to  see  the  application  to  me  of  your 
sententious  observation  that  some  men  do 
a  day's  work  and  then  spend  six  days  ad- 
miring it.  From  your  knowledge  of  me, 
as  expressed  in  your  letters,  you  cannot 
believe  me  guilty  of  the  day's  work.  As 
for  self -admiration,  the  glass  which  you  are 
constantly  holding  before  me  is  no  flat- 
terer, and  conceit  has  been  thumped  out 
of  me  with  the  unremitting  persistency  of 
a  pile-driver.  After  the  perusal  of  one 
of  your  letters,  I  always  feel  so  small  that  if 
I  looked  as  I  felt  I'd  be  valuable  as  a 
midget. 

As  you  say,  there  is  room  at  the  top,  but 
not  much  elsewhere.  That's  just  exactly 
how  I  feel  about  the  pork-packing  business. 
In  order  to  expedite  my  progress  I,  day  be- 
fore yesterday,  informed  the  manager  of  the 
lard  department  that  either  he  or  I  would 
have  to  quit  the  employ  of  Graham  &  Co. 
In  case  he  decided  that  I  had  better  go,  I 


LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

warned  him  that  it  was  my  intention  to 
take  the  first  European  steamer  to  lay  cer- 
tain facts  before  you.  I  knew  that  it  would 
be  no  use  for  me  to  appeal  to  Milligan,  for 
it  is  a  bed-rock  principle  of  that  dignitary's 
life  that  I  am  always  wrong.  The  next 
day  the  manager  of  the  lard  department 
was  not  on  hand.  Milligan  asked  for  him 
and  I  said,  "  I  am  the  manager." 

"  Umph !  "  he  grunted.  (Did  you  ever 
notice  how  exceedingly  porcine  is  Milli- 
gan's  grunt  ?)  "  Where's  Welch  ? " 

"  I  discharged  him  yesterday,"  I  re- 
plied. 

"  You — you  discharge  him  ?  It's  impos- 
sible. You  have  no  right,"  blustered  your 
Hibernian  auxiliary. 

"  Haven't  I  the  right  ? "  I  answered. 
"Well,  perhaps  not."  Then  I  told  him 
one  of  my  stock  stories,  a  true  tale  of  Illi- 
nois in  the  early  days.  A  newly  appointed 
Justice  of  the  Peace  had  as  his  first  case  a 
charge  of  horse  stealing.  The  accused 
man's  guilt  was  palpable  enough  and  there 
were  grounds  for  belief  that  a  recent  epi- 
demic of  this  sort  of  thieving  was  to  be  at- 
tributed to  him.  At  all  events  the  J.  P. 
decided  that  it  was  no  case  for  half  way 


The  Son  as  Manager  of  bis  Father's 
Pork-packing  Establishment. 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  239 

measures  and  that  he  would  try  it  himself 
without  wasting  time  getting  together  a 
jury.  In  about  fifteen  minutes  he  found 
the  prisoner  guilty  and  ordered  the  con- 
stable to  get  the  nearest  available  rope  and 
hang  the  condemned  directly.  The  horse 
thief  had  a  friend  within  hearing,  who, 
when  he  saw  how  things  were  going,  went 
in  hot  haste  after  the  only  lawyer  the  set- 
tlement boasted.  The  lawyer,  inspired  by 
a  liberal  retainer,  galloped  up  in  hot  haste 
and  sought  the  Justice  of  the  Peace. 

"  Your  honor,"  he  exclaimed  at  the  close 
of  a  fervent  plea, "  you  have  no  jurisdiction 
or  power  to  condemn  the  prisoner  to  death. 
You  can  only  hold  him  for  a  higher  court. 
You  cannot  hang  him." 

"  Wa-al,"  said  the  justice,  aiming  a  quid  of 
tobacco  at  the  window,  "  you  seem  to  know 
a  lot  about  the  law  an'  I'm  obleeged  to  you. 
But  as  to  hanging  this  man,  if  you'll  look 
out  that  thar  window  p'raps  you'll  change 
your  mind  as  to  whether  I  kin  do  it  or 
not."  And  he  pointed  calmly  to  a  most 
potent  argument,  a  body  swinging  from  the 
end  of  a  limb  of  a  neighboring  tree. 

"  I  may  not  have  the  right,"  I  added  to 
Milligan,  "  to  fire  Welch,  but,  by  George,  I 
had  the  power,  for  he's  gone." 


24O  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

The  fact  is  —  I  didn't  tell  Milligan,  for  I 
wouldn't  give  him  the  satisfaction  —  I  hap- 
pened to  learn  that  Welch  was  giving  the 
"  House  "  the  double  cross.  For  half  a  dozen 
years  he's  been  running  a  sort  of  illicit  still 
for  lard  and  been  selling  it  on  the  quiet  to 
our  customers.  As  our  business  has  grown 
rapidly  and  as  his  sales  were  but  a  flea  bite, 
it  was  not  noticed  until  I  probed  his  secret. 

If  it  hadn't  been  for  my  affection  for  ex- 
ercise about  a  green  table  I  shouldn't  have 
spoilt  Welch's  sport. 

Old  Si  Higginbotham  came  to  town  last 
week  and  I  met  him  one  evening  when  he 
was  pretty  well  steam-heated.  He  insisted 
on  trying  to  tear  up  the  cloth  with  a  cue 
and,  for  the  trade's  sake,  I  gave  him  his 
head.  The  more  games  we  played  —  with 
lubricants  —  the  mellower  he  became,  and 
before  I  could  get  him  to  bed  he  had  wept 
the  color  completely  out  of  the  shoulder  of 
my  coat.  Incidentally  he  blurted  out  about 
Mr.  Welch's  neat  side  line,  and  after  I  had 
verified  the  facts  I  taxed  him  with  it. 

As  I  do  not  want  to  interfere  too  much 
in  the  business  during  your  absence,  I  have 
appointed  no  successor  to  my  former  place 
as  assistant  manager  of  the  lard  depart- 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  24! 

ment,  but  am  holding  down  both  salaries. 
There  is  really  no  need  of  an  assistant. 
The  only  duty  of  the  manager  is  to  boss 
the  assistant  and  you  ought  to  hear  me 
order  myself  around. 

I'm  not  particularly  enraptured  with  the 
job,  and  if  you  think  I  deserve  further 
promotion  please  cable  (at  my  expense). 

You  will  be  pleased,  I  know,  to  learn 
that  a  week  ago  Thursday  I  quit  smoking. 
It  may  sound  strange  to  you  when  I  say 
that  I  did  it  simply  and  solely  because  I 
was  argued  into  it.  I  met  Fred  Penny- 
packer —  paying  teller  in  the  Michigan 
National,  you  know  —  and  offered  him  a 
cigar,  which  he  declined,  with  the  informa- 
tion that  he  had  not  smoked  for  five  years. 

"  Heart  trouble  ? "  I  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  marriage." 

"Oh,  wife  objected?" 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "  Mrs.  Penny- 
packer  likes  the  odor  of  a  good  cigar.  The 
fact  is,  Graham,  after  little  Ernest  came  "- 
his  boy  — "  I  made  up  my  mind  to  begin  a 
special  bank  account  for  him  by  denying 
myself  something.  So  I  determined  that 
it  should  be  smoking,  which  did  me  no  real 
good  and  cost  a  lot,  for  I  cared  only  for  the 


242  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

best  cigars.  I  found  it  was  costing  me  on 
an  average  over  a  dollar  a  day  for  tobacco. 
So  ever  since  I  have  placed  $30  a  month 
to  the  young  man's  credit  in  the  savings 
bank.  In  five  years,  with  compound  in- 
terest and  a  little  extra  change,  it  has 
amounted  to  nearly  $2,000.  When  he  is 
twenty-one  it  will  be  the  nucleus  of  a  for- 
tune. Try  it,  Graham,  it's  much  better 
than  smoking." 

I  suggested  that  I  had  no  son  to  make  it 
an  object.  "  Well,  you  may  have,"  was  the 
reply,  "  and  even  if  you  don't  you  may  be 
glad  some  day  you've  got  the  money." 

I  fancy  that  perhaps  he  was  thinking  of 
the  rumors  that  have  placed  you  in  a  par- 
ticularly splintery  corner  on  November 
lard.  But  I  thought  of  what  he  said  sev- 
eral times  and  the  next  day,  after  trying  in 
vain  to  smoke  a  cigar  that  I  found  in  your 
desk,  I  decided  to  relegate  smoking  to  the 
list  of  my  banished  small  vices.  That  was 
a  week  ago  last  Thursday.  Last  Friday, 
day  before  yesterday,  I  met  Pennypacker 
in  the  Palmer  House  cafe. 

"  Hello,  Fred,"  I  said, "  I  want  to  tell  you 
something.  I've  followed  your  advice." 

"  Advice  ?    What  advice  ? "  he  asked. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  243 

"Why,  to  quit  smoking  and  save  the 
money." 

"Did  I  tell  you  that?"  he  asked  ner- 
vously, as  he  fumbled  in  his  breast-pocket. 

"Certainly.  You  told  me  about  little 
Ernest  and  —  why,  what  are  you  doing?" 
He  had  pulled  a  case  from  his  pocket  and 
was  biting  off  a  cigar.  "  I  thought  you  — " 

"Didn't  smoke,  eh?  Well,  I  didn't  till 
yesterday,  when  that  blasted  savings  bank 
suspended." 

I  resumed  smoking  Friday.  In  fact, 
Pennypacker  and  I  had  a  regular  smoke- 
talk.  I've  decided  that  if  ever  I  save 
money  it  will  not  be  by  small  personal 
economies.  I've  made  up  my  mind  that, 
as  a  general  rule,  economy  is  only  a  species 
of  self-deception.  The  man  who  walks 
two  or  three  miles  to  save  car-fare  gets  the 
exercise  as  a  bonus,  but  what  sense  is  there 
in  using  postal  cards  to  save  postage  and 
then  sending  telegrams  to  hurry  up  the 
answer?  There  was  a  fellow  in  college 
whose  mania  was  to  save  shoestrings.  He 
thought  they  ought  to  wear  as  long  as  the 
shoes  and  sooner  than  indulge  in  the  lavish 
expenditure  of  a  nickel  for  a  new  pair,  he'd 
cover  his  feet  all  over  with  knots  and 


244  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

blacken  up  twine  with  ink.  Yet  when  this 
chap  wanted  a  cuspidor,  nothing  but  an 
$18  majolica  affair  would  satisfy  him. 

The  man  who  makes  his  money  by  slow 
savings  seldom  knows  when  he's  got 
enough,  and  even  if  he  finds  out  he  never 
knows  how  to  let  down  the  bars  so  that  he 
can  enjoy  it.  Habit  is  a  stern  taskmaster 
and  I  have  no  wish  to  degenerate  into  a 
miser.  There  is,  of  course,  a  mean  between 
a  spendthrift  and  a  miser,  but  the  difficulty 
is  in  determining  where  it  is  located. 

If  I  seem  prolix  on  this  subject  it  is  be- 
cause I  find  that  my  $50  salary  and  that  of  the 
late  Manager  Welch  combined,  seem  to  go 
no  farther  than  did  the  eight  per  with  which 
I  started  my  tumultuous  business  career. 
If  a  man  has  one  dollar  a  week  clear  he  is 
seldom  likely  to  have  very  expensive  tastes, 
but  give  him  a  few  hundred  a  year  more 
than  demanded  for  the  absolute  necessities 
of  life  and  he  forthwith  becomes  a  plutocrat 
in  his  longings.  This  may  be  back-handed 
philosophy,  but  it's  pretty  straight  goods 
so  far  as  the  majority  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion are  concerned.  But  I  am  infringing, 
dear  father,  on  your  chosen  prerogative. 
Let  me  change  the  subject. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  245 

Why  is  it  that  life  on  the  road  as  a  drum- 
mer seems  to  mark  a  man  for  life  ?  Every 
time  I  meet  a  commercial  traveller  in  a 
hotel  he  invariably  fires  at  me,  "  What  line 
are  you  in  ? "  I  have  changed  my  tailor 
three  times  and  have  repeatedly  altered  my 
style  of  dress,  but  still  they  seem  to  rec- 
ognize me  as  one  of  them.  Can  I  never 
shake  off  the  ear-marks  of  the  road  ?  I  am 
thinking  seriously  of  taking  a  course  with 
a  professor  of  deportment,  for  perhaps  it  is 
my  manner.  I  am  more  inclined  to  think 
it  due  to  daily  association  with  Milligan. 

The  drummer's  stock  query,  "  What  line 
are  you  in  ?"  is  natural  enough,  but  it  gets 
to  be  a  bore  after  a  time.  Job  Withers 
tells  a  story  that  illustrates  how  it  may  an- 
noy some  people.  It  also  illustrates  how 
smart  Job  Withers  is,  which  Job's  stories 
usually  do.  One  day,  in  the  train,  he  says, 
he  sat  beside  a  rather  striking-looking  man 
who,  he  afterward  learned,  is  a  professor  in 
Chicago  University.  Job  tried  to  start  up 
conversation,  but  with  little  encourage- 
ment. 

"  Fine  day,"  he  ventured. 

"  Well,  yes,  "  said  the  stranger. 

"  Pretty  good  crops." 

"  Fair." 


246  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

"  Think  we'll  have  a  shower  ? " 

"  Don't  know." 

Job  didn't  give  up,  but  all  his  questions 
begot  monosyllables.  Somewhat  nettled, 
he  said  at  last,  "  What  line  are  you  in  ?  " 

"  Brains,"  said  the  professor,  laconically. 

"  Umph !"  said  Job,  "lucky, isn't  it,  that 
you  don't  have  to  carry  any  samples  ? " 

I'm  glad  your  gout  is  better,  father,  it 
will  not  pain  you  so  much  when  I  try  to  — 
but  I  know  you  hate  slang. 

Your  rising  son, 

P. 

P.  S.  Milligan  talks  a  good  deal  about 
me  around  the  office.  He  said  this  after- 
noon he  expected  that  some  day  I'd  dis- 
charge him.  Thus  do  coming  events  cast 
their  shadows  before. 


LETTER   NO.  XVIII. 


LETTER  No.  XVIII. 

How  an  Elder's  conscience  was  amused  at  a  church 

fair,  the  folly  of  telling  a  wife  the  truth, 

are  among  PierreponV  s  topics. 

CHICAGO,  Nov.  2,  189 — 
Dear  Father : 

I  am  sending  this  letter  to  you,  special 
delivery,  care  of  the  New  York  branch, 
that  you  may  feel  that  you  are  welcomed 
home.  Although  you  have  been  abroad 
but  a  few  weeks,  I  know  that  you  will  be 
glad  to  set  foot  on  American  soil  once 
more.  I  wish  I  could  be  on  hand  to  meet 
you  and  help  sing  "  The  Star  Spangled," 
but  I  want  to  stay  here  and  keep  an  eye  on 
Milligan.  In  my  absence  he  would  be  very 
likely  to  try  and  queer  my  record. 

It's  a  great  pleasure  to  find  from  your 
last  that  you  don't  give  a  rag  for  the  bulls 
on  pork,  because  when  I  heard  that  they 
were  going  to  have  your  heart's  blood  and 
make  you  squeal  louder  than  any  hog  you 
ever  assassinated,  it  just  naturally  made  me 
feel  a  bit  uneasy.  I  don't  want  to  see  the 


25O  LETTERS   FROM   A  SON 

Graham  money  go  flying  on  flyers,  and 
ever  since  you  showed  me  the  error  of  my 
ways  in  dabbling  in  the  Open  Board,  I 
thought  that  you,  too,  must  have  reformed. 
However,  if  you  have  got  the  bulls  by 
their  tails  and  can  twist 'em  till  the  critters 
bellow  again,  I'll  forgive  your  little  lapse 
from  righteousness. 

But,  somehow,  I  can't  help  thinking  of 
old  Elder  Blivins,  of  the  little  New  Hamp- 
shire town  where  we  used  to  go  summers 
before  you  got  very  rich.  You  remember 
the  Elder, —  a  tall,  thin  man,  with  a  con- 
science as  highly  developed  as  dyspepsia. 
Well,  one  Sunday  he  preached  a  mighty 
powerful  sermon  on  gambling,  and  the 
way  he  did  sock  it  at  the  sinners  made  my 
young  blood  run  cold.  There  happened 
to  be  several  summer  visitors  in  his  congre- 
gation that  day,  among  'em  Colonel  Porter, 
a  big  stock-broker  of  Boston,  but  that  only 
inflamed  the  Elder  all  the  more.  He  de- 
clared that  the  stock  market  was  run  by 
the  devil  in  person,  and  that  every  man 
who  took  part  in  those  hideous  games  of 
chance  was  predestinedly  and  teetotally 
damned.  It  was  a  scorcher,  and  the  dea- 
cons congratulated  him  so  heartily  after 


TO  A  SELF-MADE   FATHER.  251 

the  service  that  he  naturally  looked  for  a 
fifty-dollar  raise  in  his  salary,  which  was 
just  then  running  more  to  potatoes  than 
his  needs  seem  to  warrant.  Colonel  Porter 
looked  a  little  hot  under  the  frying,  but  he 
didn't  make  a  fool  of  himself  by  going  out. 

About  the  middle  of  the  week  the 
church  had  a  Grand  Fair  and  Sale  for  the 
purpose  of  raising  funds  to  mend  the  chim- 
ney. There  were  candy  tables,  flower 
tables,  and  knit-goods  tables;  kissing 
booths,  lemonade  stands,  cider  stands,  and 
coffee  stands.  But  the  crowds  were  always 
around  the  grab-bag  and  the  place  where 
tickets  were  sold  for  the  "grand  drawing" 
of  a  piece  of  Rogers  statuary,  representing 
two  old  codgers  at  a  heartbreaking  game 
of  checkers. 

Colonel  Porter  was  on  hand  as  chipper 
as  a  lark,  spending  money  like  a  hero  and 
earning  the  blessings  of  all  the  ladies.  He 
kept  away  from  the  grab-bag  until  he  saw 
Elder  Blivins  standing  by,  and  then  he 
sailed  up.  He  allowed  that  he  wanted  the 
gold  ring  that  was  said  to  be  in  the  bag, 
and  he  paid  his  money  and  took  a  draw. 
He  got  a  birchbark  napkin  ring  tied  with 
a  yellow  ribbon. 


252  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

"  Pshaw,  Elder,"  said  the  colonel,  look- 
ing old  Blivins  right  in  the  eye,  "  this  is  a 
hideous  game  of  chance." 

The  Elder  blinked  a  moment,  as  if  he 
were  trying  to  think  of  something,  but  he 
never  yipped. 

"  Come  on,  Elder,"  said  the  colonel  heart- 
ily. "  I  want  that  Rogers  group  the  worst 
way.  One  of  the  old  bucks  looks  just  like 
my  grandfather  used  to  when  grandmother 
wigged  him.  I'm  willing  to  gamble  good 
and  hard  for  that  group.  I'll  take  —  " 

"  Put  up  your  filthy  lucre,  sir  I"  shouted 
the  Elder.  "  The  devil  don't  run  this 
church,  and  there  isn't  going  to  be  any 
drawing."  So  saying,  he  knocked  off  one 
of  the  heads  of  the  Rogers  group  with  his 
cane,  kicked  the  grab-bag  down  the  cellar 
door,  ordered  the  crowd  to  vamoose,  put 
out  the  lamps,  and  locked  up  the  vestry. 
Then  he  disappeared  from  public  view 
until  the  following  Sunday,  when  he 
preached  his  memorable  discourse  on  the 
text, "  Let  him  that  standeth  take  heed  lest 
he  fall."  And  they  do  say  that  Colonel 
Porter  put  a  century-run  dollar  bill  into  the 
contribution  box  that  day  to  make  up  for 
the  loss  the  fair  sustained  through  his  little 
joke  on  the  parson. 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  253 

I  simply  mention  this  story  of  the  Elder 
as  an  example  of  how  a  man's  conscience 
for  other  folks  may  be  extraordinarily 
active,  while  that  section  reserved  for  him- 
self may  be  sound  asleep.  And  some 
graceless  individual  generally  holds  the 
alarm  clock. 

In  commenting  on  the  Elder's  sudden 
change  of  heart,  Colonel  Porter  admitted 
that  he  was  pretty  hard  on  the  old  chap. 
"  But  if  he  was  ever  to  reform  it  was  time  he 
began,"  he  said.  "Some  people  seem  to 
think  that  it's  never  too  late  to  reform  or  " 
—  softly  —  "  or  to  become  a  lawyer."  This 
meant  a  story,  for  the  colonel  never 
chuckled  except  when  he  felt  anecdotal. 

"Speaking  of  lawyers,"  mused  the  col- 
onel, "  there's  a  man  in  Boston  who's  done 
more  things,  it  seems  to  me,  than  any  one  I 
ever  knew.  He  has  run  stores  of  all  sorts, 
has  been  a  real  estate  agent,  a  promoter,  a 
journalist,  a  fiddler  in  an  orchestra,  and 
tuba  in  a  band.  A  few  years  ago  he 
opened  a  fish  market  in  the  winter,  sold  it 
out  two  days  before  Lent  and  went  into 
the  cultivation  of  strawberries.  He  couldn't 
be  content  long  enough  to  make  a  suc- 
cess of  anything.  He  didn't  stick  at  any- 


254  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

thing  long  enough  to  even  lose  money 
at  it,  to  say  nothing  of  making  it.  One 
day  I  met  him  near  the  Court  House, 
hurrying  along  with  an  earnest,  wrapt  look 
in  his  eyes.  I  knew  at  once  that  he  had  a 
new  call  of  duty,  for  he  always  began  like  a 
steam  engine. 

"'Hulloa,  Caldwdl,"!  said,  'what  you 
up  to  ? ' 

" '  Got  to  hurry  to  court,'  he  answered. 

"  '  What's  up,'  I  asked, '  not  in  trouble,  I 
hope  ? ' 

"  *  No,  indeed,'  he  said.  *  But  perhaps 
you  haven't  heard.  I'm  in  new  business.' 

"  *  Indeed  1 '  I  said,  with  as  great  a  show 
of  interest  as  I  could  command  in  a  man 
whom  I  never  met  without  learning  of  a 
change  of  calling.  '  What  now  ? ' 

" '  Oh,  I'm  an  expert,'  he  said,  proudly. 

"  My  face  must  have  expressed  interroga- 
tion, for  he  hastened  to  explain.  *  An  ex- 
pert for  legal  cases,  you  know.' 

" '  In  what  line  ? '  I  ventured. 

"  '  Oh,  anything,'  he  replied.  In  view  of 
his  record  I  was  free  to  admit  mentally  that 
his  experience  was  no  better  in  any  one 
thing  than  in  any  of  the  others.  A  month 
or  so  later  I  was  riding  in  an  open  car  with 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  255 

a  friend  of  Caldwell's,  when  we  passed  that 
chameleon.  He  had  a  blue  bag  under  his 
arm  and  looked  happy. 

"  '  There's  Caldwell,'  I  remarked.  '  Won- 
der how  he  is  doing  as  an  expert  witness  ? ' 

" '  Oh,  he  gave  that  up  several  weeks  ago,' 
retorted  my  companion.  '  His  court  at- 
tendance gave  him  a  new  inspiration.  He's 
studying  law  now.' 

" '  Studying  law ! '  I  cried,  in  amazement. 
1  Studying  law  at  65  ?  The  idiot  1 ' 

" '  I  don't  know  about  that,'  said  my 
friend.  *  He  may  not  be  such  a  fool  as  he 
looks.  I  was  surprised  when  he  told  me 
that  he  was  going  to  try  the  bar  examina- 
tion next  spring,  and  expressed  it.  He 
smiled  significantly  and  said  he  guessed 
he'd  get  through  all  right.  '  You  see,'  he 
said,  *  my  wife's  word  is  law,  and  she's  been 
laying  it  down  to  me  for  thirty  years.' " 

"  Hence,"  said  the  colonel,  "  it's  never  too 
late  for  some  men  to  reform  —  to  desert  or 
to  take  to  the  bar." 

I'm  sure  I  have  no  desire  to  be  a  hum- 
ming bird  in  life,  to  flit  from  flower  to 
flower ;  but  I  shall  not  be  sorry  if  some  day 
a  stentorian  call  comes  to  me  to  forsake  the 
pork  industry.  I  am  not  much  of  a  farmer, 


C56  LETTERS    FROM   A   SON 

but  I'm  cock  sure  you  can't  make  cider  out 
of  dried  apples,  and  as  far  as  taste  for  the 
business  of  selling  pig  is  concerned,  I'm 
threaded  on  a  string  from  the  rafters.  I 
really  think  it's  time  that  the  family  name 
was  taken  out  of  trade.  Where  would  the 
"  four  hundred "  be  if  the  Astors  and 
Vanderbilts  and  the  rest  of  the  aristocracy 
had  stuck  to  the  business  that  made  them 
rich  ?  It's  actually  indecent  for  the  wealthy 
to  parade  the  source  of  their  prosperity  to 
the  populace. 

May  I  venture  a  suggestion  ?  Why  not 
capitalize  the  Graham  plant  ?  You  can  do 
this  at  a  figure  about  four  times  its  worth, 
sell  almost  half  of  the  stock,  keep  the  rest 
and  own  the  plant  after  all  is  done.  If  this 
isn't  kicking  the  gizzard  out  of  the  old  prov- 
erb that  you  can't  eat  your  cake  and  have 
it  too,  I'm  a  Dutchman.  Besides,  when 
you  are  an  incorporated  company,  or  in  a 
merger,  you're  respectable.  The  grease 
don't  come  off  dividend  checks.  Then  if, 
as  a  clincher,  you  give  away  some  of  your 
surplus  to  educational  institutions,  you've 
headed  your  family  along  the  highway 
which  leads  to  seeing  your  name  in  another 
part  of  the  newspapers  than  the  court  cal- 
endar. 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER.  257 

You  certainly  owe  something  to  your 
descendants,  for  upon  them  depends  the 
future  of  your  own  reputation.  The  orig- 
inal money  grabber  of  a  great  family  may 
have  dug  clams  and  robbed  widows  and 
orphans,  but  his  memory  swells  into  gigan- 
tic proportions  when  his  multi-millionaire 
great-grandchildren  know  that  he  is  so 
generally  forgotten  as  to  be  talked  about 
with  impunity.  You  may  not  take  kindly 
to  this,  but  mother  has  social  aspirations. 
She  will  probably  never  get  any  farther, 
personally,  than  an  extremely  pink  tea,  but 
she  would  be  encouraged  if  she  had  some 
hope  of  being  pointed  to  in  her  portrait  as 
the  grandmother  of  people  to  whom  trade 
will  be  only  a  despised  heirloom,  to  be 
stored  in  the  garret  with  the  haircloth 
sofa. 

I  presume  that  you  are  to  stay  at  the 
Waldorf-Astoria  while  you  linger  in  New 
York.  Let  me,  as  a  dutiful  son,  give  you 
a  tip  as  to  your  bearing  in  that  hostelry. 
Don't  let  on  that  you  are  a  pork  packer 
from  Chicago,  if  you  value  the  contents  of 
your  pocketbook.  They'll  skin  you,  dress 
you  and  salt  you  while  you  wait,  if  they  find 
out  your  profession.  And  don't  tell  the 


258  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

clerk  that  you're  the  father  of  Pierrepont 
Graham  who  stopped  at  his  hotel  for 
awhile,  a  little  over  a  year  ago.  I  believe 
there's  still  a  little  something  due  for 
extras  from  that  visit  of  mine,  and  I  am 
considerate  enough  not  to  want  to  get  you 
into  any  muss  about  that  robber  baron 
bill. 

You  are  somewhat  of  a  stranger  in  New 
York,  and  I  want  to  caution  you  against 
travelling  around  town  exposing  your  mas- 
sive gold  chain  with  the  hog  watch-charm 
you  affect.  Somehow  a  sucker  is  viewed 
by  the  amount  of  yellow  metal  he  displays 
on  his  vest,  and  I  don't  want  to  hear  that 
you  have  been  treated  to  knock-out  drops 
or  tapped  on  the  cranium  with  a  sandbag, 
just  because  you  look  like  a  guy  with  an 
inflated  wallet.  All  I  ask  of  you  is,  that 
you  get  back  safe  to  Chicago  to  straighten 
out  the  business.  Since  I  have  assumed 
control  of  the  lard  department  there  have 
been  two  strikes  and  one  lock-out  in  our 
branch  of  the  business,  and  I  don't  know 
whether  to  close  down  the  department  al- 
together or  to  raise  everybody's  wages  and 
make  it  up  on  the  quality  of  the  lard.  Even 
Ma  is  beginning  to  kick,  for  she  says  she 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  259 

has  a  life  interest  in  the  business  and  she 
can't  see  why  your  rheumatism  should  be 
allowed  to  cut  her  dividends  in  two.  I 
read  her  your  excellent  advice  as  to  the  sin 
of  worrying,  but  it  had  no  effect  on  her. 
She  says  that  any  woman  who  has  a  galli- 
vanting husband  and  a  fool  son  has  the  right 
to  worry,  and  that  she  will  keep  right  at  it 
until  you  drive  up  to  the  door,  when  she 
will  give  you  a  welcome  home  that  you  will 
remember.  Perhaps  you  had  better  come 
in  by  the  back  entrance  and  let  her  dis- 
cover you  in  bed  suffering  the  tortures  of 
the  damned,  as  they  say  in  novels.  Noth- 
ing disarms  a  woman  like  a  man  keeled 
over  by  disease. 

In  any  event,  don't  tell  her  the  truth 
about  your  European  trip  and  its  little 
enjoyments.  If  you  do,  you  may  have 
something  like  the  experience  of  Henry 
Bagshot.  As  you,  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve, know,  Bagshot  is  an  habitual  poker 
player — one  of  the  kind  who'd  rather  sit 
up  all  night  saying, "  that's  good,"  than 
make  fifty  thousand  by  a  coup  on  the  Ex- 
change. In  twenty-seven  years  of  married 
life,  it  seems  he  has  concealed  from  Mrs.  B. 
his  feverish  anxiety  to  draw  one  card  for 


26O  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

the  middle,  and  has  always  had  some  good 
excuse  for  his  late  sessions.  But  about  a 
month  ago  he  had  a  bad  attack  with  his 
heart  and  the  doctor  who  pulled  him 
through  warned  him  that  life  was  not 
eternal  in  his  case  any  more  than  with  the 
rest  of  us. 

It  gave  Bagshot  a  creepy  feeling  to  see  the 
"  Gates  Ajar,"  and  for  a  couple  of  weeks, 
when  his  fingers  itched  for  the  chips,  he 
let  it  go  at  scratching.  When  he  fell  there 
was  a  terrible  thud  and  it  was  4  A.  M.  when 
he  crawled  into  the  family  mansion.  Mrs. 
B.  was  sitting  up.  She  had  feared  the  worst. 
A  compunction  of  conscience,  due  to  the 
graveyard  suggestion  of  his  medical  ad- 
visor, struck  Bagshot  when  the  lady  of  his 
choice  propounded  the  usual  conundrum 
and  he  weakened.  His  carefully  prepared 
explanation  stuck  in  his  throat  and  he 
blurted  out :  "  Very  sorry,  my  dear,  but  the 
fact  is  I  got  into  a  game  of  poker  at  the  club 
and  —  and  I  won  eighty-five.  Here  they 
are,  buy  yourself  something."  And  he 
dropped  the  greenbacks  into  Mrs.  B's  lap. 

Then  there  was  a  scene.  She  didn't  be- 
lieve him  and  could  not  be  induced  to  do 
so.  "  Henry  Bagshot,"  she  cried, "  in  twenty- 


TO    HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  26l 

seven  years  you've  never  stayed  away  from 
home  to  play  poker.  It  was  not  cards,  but 
some  awful  hussy ! "  and  she  had  hysterics 
till  daylight  and  it  cost  Bagshot  $2,500  for 
a  new  brougham  and  a  span  of  horses  be- 
fore he  could  get  away  to  breakfast.  What- 
ever happens,  no  husband  should  tell  the 
truth  to  his  wife.  Either  she'd  not  believe 
him  or  the  shock  would  kill  her. 
Your  cautious  son, 

PlERREPONT. 

P.  S.  I  wrote  George  Damon  congratu- 
lations on  his  marriage  to  Verbena  Philpot, 
the  girl,  you  remember,  whose  father  in- 
sisted that  I  should  be  his  son-in  law.  The 
letter  evidently  followed  him  to  Europe 
where  the  happy  couple  appear  to  have 
gone,  for  the  other  day  I  received  this 
cablegram  :  "  Letter  received.  Congratu- 
lations belong  to  you." 


LETTER  NO.   XIX. 


LETTER  No.  XIX. 

Pierrepont   tells   the   governor   "  what's    what" 

about  Helen  Heath  and  cites  an  example  of 

matrimonial  felicity  secured  by  peculiar 

methods  pursued  by  the  husband. 

CHICAGO,  Nov.  7,  189  — 

Dear  Father : 

You  want  to  know  who's  Helen  Heath 
and  what's  what  about  her.  Well,  sir,  I 
can  tell  you  right  off  the  reel  that  she's  the 
dearest  girl  on  earth,  and  that  she  has 
promised  to  be  my  life  antidote  against 
the  hog  trade.  She's  the  daughter  of  old 
General  Heath,  who  hasn't  a  red  cent  to 
his  name,  and  she  hasn't  a  prospect  in  the 
world  other  than  that  of  being  your  daugh- 
ter-in-law, which  is  about  as  near  to  a  set- 
tled fact  as  anything  this  side  of  heaven. 
That's  who  she  is  and  that's  what's  what. 

But  what  she  is,  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you, 
and  I  don't  believe  you'd  care  to  read  it  if 
I  did.  I  find  that  a  year  and  a  half  in 
Graham  &  Co.  has  sadly  dulled  my  once 


266  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

radiant  and  classic  vocabulary,  and  that 
the  things  I  want  to  say  about  Helen  keep 
getting  tainted  with  the  aroma  of  the  try- 
ing-out vats  and  the  smell  of  gloomy,  gray 
sausages.  It's  no  use,  father,  love  and 
pork  packing  never  did  go  together  and 
never  will.  And  you  probably  know  with- 
out my  telling  you  one  article  of  food  that 
will  never  appear  on  my  Helen's  table. 

But  of  course  you  do  not  need  any  rhap- 
sody from  me,  for  you  know  Helen  already, 
and  you  admit  that  she's  a  peach,  which  is 
a  pretty  extreme  thing  for  a  man  of  your 
strength  of  mind  to  do.  You  say  she 
treated  you  like  a  father  on  the  voyage 
home.  She  had  her  cue,  and  I'm  glad  to 
find  that  our  little  game  worked.  Of  course 
I  wrote  to  London,  where  she  has  been 
staying  for  a  month  or  two,  giving  her  a  tip 
on  the  steamer  you  were  to  take.  I  knew 
that  if  I  broached  the  subject  of  Helen  to 
you  in  the  regular,  orthodox  way,  you  would 
fly  into  a  tantrum  and  swear  that  no  son 
of  yours  should  ever  marry  the  daughter  of 
a  penniless  old  lush  like  the  general,  no 
matter  how  sweet  and  worthy  she  herself 
might  be.  So  I  told  Helen  to  get  next  you 
in  a  casual  way,  sparing  no  sugar  in  the 


TO  HIS  SELF-MADE   FATHER.  267 

process.  From  what  you  say,  I  should 
think  she  had  used  molasses  instead,  and 
if  a  man  could  reasonably  be  jealous  of  his 
own  father,  you'd  certainly  be  the  Cassio 
of  our  little  play. 

Your  observation  that  love  in  a  flat  with 
fifty  a  week  isn't  very  bad,  is  interesting 
and  no  doubt  true,  but  it's  open  to  correc- 
tion. Suppose  we  amend  it  by  substitut- 
ing the  words  "  seventy-five  "  for  "  fifty," 
and  then  pass  it  without  a  dissenting  vote. 
And  the  house  gives  notice  that  the  gov- 
ernor need  not  object,  because  we  shall 
certainly  pass  the  bill  over  his  head  if  he 
does. 

Of  course,  as  you  say,  a  wife  doubles  a 
man's  expenses,  but  she  doesn't  begin  to 
increase  them  as  a  "  best  girl "  does.  I 
think  that's  why  a  good  many  men  marry 
young,  especially  those  with  a  provident 
streak  in  them.  They  want  to  get  to  sav- 
ing money  as  soon  as  possible ;  flowers  and 
candy  and  books  and  theatres  and  car- 
riages and  suppers  are  pretty  apt  to  aver- 
age more  than  rent,  frugal  board  and 
modest  clothes.  Of  course,  my  wife  is 
going  to  look  decent,  but  there  are  a  few 
things  around  which  I  am  going  to  draw  a 


268  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

good  strong  line.  I  shall  lay  down  the 
proposition  that  a  woman's  hat  ought  not 
to  cost  more  than  four  times  what  I  pay 
for  mine,  which  lasts  a  good  deal  longer. 
However,  I  believe  Helen  has  a  knack 
toward  millinery  which  it  will  be  well  to 
encourage.  If  you  tell  your  wife  she's 
artistic,  she'll  work  her  fingers  off  to  prove 
it  to  you. 

I  have  some  very  decided  ideas  on  the 
conduct  of  the  matrimonial  partnership, 
and  I  propose  to  see  that  they  are  carried 
into  effect.  I  do  not  mean  to  be  a  marti- 
net, but  I've  kept  my  eyes  open  at  home 
and  abroad  —  especially  at  home  —  and  I 
think  I  can  say  without  egotism  that  I 
know  a  thing  or  two  about  married  life. 
There  is  always  an  easy  way  for  a  man  to 
be  master  in  his  own  house.  Although 
Dame  Nature  has  not  given  me  the  same 
physical  handicap  as  Homer  Aristotle 
Eaton,  the  stockbroker,  I  fancy  there  is 
a  good  tip  in  his  methods  of  home  rule. 
Eaton,  as  you  know,  is  a  very  little  man, 
and,  by  one  of  the  freaks  of  Cupid,  he  is 
married  to  a  particularly  fine  specimen  of 
the  genus  Amazon.  Indeed,  when  they  go 
out  driving  together,  their  outfit  looks  like 


TO   HIS    SELF-MADE   FATHER  269 

one  of  those  newspaper  puzzle  pictures : 
"  find  the  missing  man,"  you  know. 

But  although  Mrs.  E.  is  a  masterful  sort 
of  woman,  whose  look  would  seem  enough 
to  annihilate  the  remaining  sixteenth  of 
their  domestic  unit,  it  is  common  knowl- 
edge that  Homer  Aristotle  Eaton  is  the 
boss  of  his  family  ward.  I  used  to  think 
that  this  might  be  awe  of  the  portentous 
name  with  which  his  parents  cursed  him, 
but  his  junior  partner,  Giles  Corey,  let  the 
Angora  out  of  the  suit  case  the  other  night 
at  a  heart  party  —  one  of  those  affairs  where 
hearts  are  the  souvenirs  and  the  play  is  to 
get  as  few  of  them  as  possible. 

"  Yes,"  said  Giles,  in  a  pause  for  refresh- 
ments, "  Eaton's  high  card  in  his  deck. 
He's  pretty  fussy  and  wants  things  his 
own  way.  And  he's  had  them  so  for  his 
eleven  years  of  married  life. 

"  With  that  queenly  woman ! "  cried  one 
of  the  party. 

"  She  could  annihilate  him  with  a  look," 
said  another. 

"Ah,  that's  just  it,"  was  Giles'  reply. 
"He  don't  give  her  a  chance.  You  see, 
fellows,  it's  this  way.  The  first  time,  years 
ago,  that  there  was  a  difference  between 


27O  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

them,  Eaton  dropped  the  subject  and  came 
down  town.  Two  or  three  hours  later  he 
called  Mrs.  E.  on  the  'phone.  He  was  in 
the  booth  fully  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
and  when  he  came  out  his  face  was  as  red 
as  a  boiled  lobster.  But,  as  I  happen  to 
know,  he  won  his  point.  It  was  about  in- 
viting a  certain  man  and  his  wife  to  dinner. 
Mrs.  Eaton  objected  because  they  were  not 
in  her  set.  Eaton  wanted  them  because 
the  man  was  nibbling  at  his  bait  in  a  big 
deal.  They  went  to  the  dinner." 

As  there  were  several  married  men  in 
the  gathering,  Corey  was  bombarded  with 
questions  as  to  his  partner's  secret.  At 
last  he  said:  "Well,  I'll  tell  you,  if  you'll 
never  quote  me  as  your  authority." 

As  you,  father,  can  be  depended  upon 
for  secrecy,  I  am  not  violating  confidence. 

"  You  see,"  said  Corey,  "  Homer  has  a  big 
bass  voice  and  he  could  argue  the  Sphynx 
out  of  the  sand  or  a  New  Yorker  out  of  his 
conceit.  The  combination  of  voice  and 
argument  is  irresistible  —  through  the  tele- 
phone—  and  Mrs.  Eaton  always  wilts  when 
he's  held  the  line  for  a  few  minutes.  Meek 
as  Moses  at  home,  he's  a  tyrant  over  his 
private  wire.  I  honestly  think  that  he  has 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  271 

Mrs.  E.  hypnotized  and  that  the  sound  of 
his  ring  puts  her  in  a  receptive  mood. 
Homer  confessed  as  much  to  me  one  day 
when  he  said,  'Giles,  my  boy,  the  puny 
little  man  with  a  bass  voice  finds  his  best 
friend  in  the  telephone.'" 

Although  I  am  not  in  the  light-weight 
class,  and  favor  in  voice  Jean  rather  than 
Edouard  de  Reszke,  I  think  I  can  see  a 
valuable  suggestion  in  the  Homer-Aris- 
totle-Eaton method.  An  argument  con- 
ducted from  a  distance  certainly  cannot 
end  in  woman's  last  resource  and  most 
potent  argument  —  tears.  I  trust  you  will 
not  fancy  that  I  anticipate  any  domestic 
infelicity.  I  am  only  following  your  rule 
of  being  well  prepared  for  all  emergencies. 
I  certainly  intend  to  be  a  kind,  loving, 
and  —  within  my  rights  — pliable  husband. 
Helen  is  a  sweet-natured  girl,  but  I  don't 
expect  her  to  be  all  sugar-cane  and  molas- 
ses. She'll  scarcely  equal  in  complacence 
the  wife  of  a  few  very  unhappy  years,  who, 
when  her  friends  advised  her  to  leave  the 
husband  who  neglected  and  abused  her, 
stood  up  in  his  defence  and  insisted  that 
he  was  far  kinder  than  they  thought. 

"Why,"  she  said,  "it  was  only  a  few 


272  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

months  ago  that  he  celebrated  the  anni- 
versary of  our  marriage  —  our  wooden 
wedding." 

This  was  too  much  for  her  sister,  who 
had  spent  several  weeks  with  her  at  the 
time,  to  stand.  "  Wooden  wedding,  in- 
deed!" she  cried;  " the  only  wooden  wed- 
ding you  had  was  when  your  brute  of  a 
husband  came  home  and  knocked  you  down 
with  a  chair ! " 

It  is  surprising  what  a  different  thing 
the  world  becomes  when  a  fellow  is  in  love. 
I  don't  want  to  be  a  silly  ass  just  because 
the  prettiest,  dearest  girl  on  the  footstool 
said  "  yes  "  instead  of  the  "  no  "  I  really  de- 
served, but  I  must  tell  somebody  how 
happy  I  am.  If  I  had  money  enough  and 
was  a  sort  of  czar  at  whom  people  couldn't 
laugh  without  arrest  for  lese  majeste,  I'd 
have  all  the  church  bells  rung,  fire  salutes 
on  the  lake  front  and  send  up  balloons  with 
Helen's  name  on  'em  in  twenty-seven  foot 
letters.  Until  I  met  Helen  Heath  I  thought 
I  should  never  marry;  in  fact,  I  considered 
myself  immune.  But  I  hadn't  seen  her 
three  times  before  she  had  me  under  her 
thumb,  and  the  minute  a  girl  has  a  fellow 
there,  he,  strangely  enough,  wants  her  hand. 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  273 

And  I'm  to  have  it  and  her  heart  with  it, 
and  she  —  well,  she's  to  have  me  and  the 
fifty  per  that  you  dole  out  to  me.  Occa- 
sionally I  have  the  blues,  declare  that  I'm 
not  fit  for  her  and  feel  as  I  felt  on  the  road 
when  I  finally  buncoed  some  confiding 
grocer  to  order  a  bill  of  our  goods. 

I'm  in  a  pretty  tough  dilemma,  anyway, 
and  unless  you  help  me  out  I'll  have  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  my  footing.  When  a  fel- 
low's head  over  heels  in  love  and  up  to  his 
ears  in  debt,  it's  certainly  time  for  some- 
body to  throw  him  a  life-preserver.  You, 
my  dear  father,  can  knock  the  cork  jackets 
off  all  the  coastguards  in  the  service  in  this 
particular  branch  of  the  life-saving  busi- 
ness, by  just  getting  your  fountain  pen  busy 
over  a  check-book.  And  how  you  would 
be  repaid !  We  —  and  ours  —  would  bless 
you  far  down  the  thundering  ages.  Think 
it  over  and  cut  your  Boston  visit  short.  I'm 
afraid  for  you  in  the  Hub,  anyway.  You 
are  very  likely  to  get  into  trouble.  Do  you 
know,  for  instance,  that  it  is  believed  by 
the  best  Boston  families  that  capital  pun- 
ishment is  a  very  light  penalty  for  commit- 
ting a  solecism?  Pray  be  careful.  I  do 
not  wish  to  inherit  through  a  tragedy. 


274  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

You  will  find  me  more  serious  than  I 
used  to  be.  Perhaps  this  is  due  in  part  to 
my  realization  of  the  responsibility  that  I 
am  about  to  assume  in  the  way  of  a  father- 
in-law.  General  Heath  is  very  friendly  — 
indeed,  I  may  say  that  we  are  on  a  very 
intimate  understanding.  I  have  already 
grown  to  know  him  so  well  that  I  am 
usually  able  to  anticipate  his  wishes  —  that 
is,  when  I  have  the  price.  I  confess  it  is 
hard  work  to  affect  an  interest  in  the  story 
of  the  only  battle  in  which  he  appears  to 
have  participated,  on  hearing  it  for  the 
fourteenth  time.  But  every  rose  has  its 
thorn,  and  Helen  Heath  has  the  General. 
I  have  a  friend  or  two  at  Washington,  and, 
as  you  have  several  more,  perhaps  between 
us  we  shall  be  able  to  prove  to  him  that 
republics  are  not  always  ungrateful.  I 
think  a  South  American  or  Pacific  Island 
consulate  would  express  the  nation's  grati- 
tude with  agreeable  significance. 

When  I  put  a  plain  gold  ring  under  the 
diamond  that  I  gave  Helen  —  and  which, 
I  regret  to  say,  is  not  yet  paid  for  —  I  do 
not  propose  to  marry  her  distinguished  but 
slightly  disheveled  pater.  The  constant 
recital  of  that  battle  story  might  not  de- 


TO    HIS    SELF-MADE    FATHER.  275 

stroy  domestic  felicity,  but  it  would  cer- 
tainly give  it  an  unsettled  feeling.  You 
might  send  him  on  the  road  if  the  govern- 
ment proves  unmindful  of  its  debt  to  him. 
He  is  fond  of  travelling,  and  he  could 
scarcely  sell  less  goods  than  I  did. 

Of  course,  I'm  glad  you  think  Helen 
pretty  and  nice,  but  now  that  you  know 
my  intentions  I  shall  rely  upon  your  sense 
of  good  taste  and  the  fitness  of  things  to 
moderate  your  raptures.  I  agree  with  you 
that  there  is  nothing  in  the  theory  that 
two  can  live  cheaper  than  one.  I  wouldn't 
have  one  —  that  is,  the  one  —  live  on  what 
I  have  been  receiving  since  I  accepted  a 
position  with  your  house.  I  intend  that 
my  wife  shall  feel  that  she  is  the  real  thing. 
While  there  are  many  signs  to  prove  that 
Helen  is  not  extravagant  —  thanks  to  the 
General,  she's  had  no  practice  —  she  must 
not  be  pointed  out  on  the  street  as  your 
daughter-in-law  and  comments  made  in  this 
vein :  "  How  can  that  rich  John  Graham 
let  her  dress  like  that  or  live  so ! " 

You  will  not  allow  that,  I  know,  for,  with 
all  your  abstruse  theories  about  economy 
and  self-help,  you'll  appreciate  that  it  is 
due  to  you  to  see  to  it  that  your  only 


276  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

daughter  is  a  credit  to  you.  It  would  be  a 
pretty  bad  advertisement  for  the  business 
to  have  a  dowdy  daughter-in-law  living  in 
a  dowdy  neighborhood,  now  wouldn't  it  ? 
And  if  we  must  be  identified  with  the  pork 
industry,  there  should  be  compensation. 
But  we  can  discuss  these  things  better 
when  we  are  face  to  face. 

Your  enamoured  son, 

Pierrepont. 

P.  S.  I'm  so  happy  and  at  peace  with 
all  the  world  that  if  I  thought  it  would 
please  him  I'd  invite  Milligan  to  be  my 
best  man. 


LETTER   NO.   XX. 


LETTER  No.  XX. 

PierreponV  s  philosophy  on  matrimony  is  somewhat 

colored  by  the  fact  that  he  is  a  Benedict  and 

it  is  evident  that  henceforth  he  will 

be  too  busy  to  write  letters. 

CHICAGO,  Nov.  13,  189 — 
Dear  Father : 

The  seventy-five  dollars  a  week  that  you 
promised  me  in  yours  of  the  nth  inst., 
are  already  mine,  for  there  isn't  any  Helen 
Heath  now.  There  is  a  Mrs.  Pierrepont 
Graham,  whose  first  name  is  Helen,  and  I 
guess  you'll  find  her  pretty  nearly  the 
same  young  woman  who  took  you  into 
camp  so  neatly  on  the  voyage  to  New 
York.  She  reached  Chicago  live  days  ago, 
and  her  glowing  reports  about  your  sub- 
jugation, backed  up  by  your  promise  to 
raise  me  to  seventy-five  on  the  day  I  mar- 
ried Helen  Heath,  decided  us  to  plunge 
into  the  sea  of  matrimony  before  we 
stopped  to  find  whether  the  water  was  cold 
or  not.  It  wasn't,  as  it  happened;  but 
that's  another  affair. 


28O  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

Our  wedding  was  a  quiet  affair,  and 
would  have  pleased  you  by  its  utter  lack 
of  ostentation.  We  took  a  carriage  at 
Helen's  house  and  drove  to  the  home  of 
old  Dr.  Ramage,  the  superannuated  Meth- 
odist parson,  who  is  glad  to  eke  out  his 
stipend  by  marrying  and  no  questions 
asked.  Somehow  General  Heath  got  wind 
of  what  was  going  forward,  and  he  sent 
out  a  line  of  scouts  to  reconnoitre  our 
movements.  One  of  his  men  intersected 
our  line  at  Clark  street,  and  an  orderly 
was  immediately  despatched  on  a  street- 
car to  the  general  with  the  news  in  cipher. 
The  gallant  old  commander  mounted  a 
hansom  and  proceeded  on  the  double- 
quick  to  our  temporary  camp  —  otherwise 
the  parlor  of  Dr.  Ramage.  He  moved  on 
us  in  good  order,  and  charged  our  in- 
trenchments  just  as  the  doctor  was  asking 
Helen  if  she  would  love,  cherish  and  obey. 
He  was  in  high  good  spirits — in  fact,  I 
should  say  that  good  spirits  were  high  in 
him  by  the  change  in  the  atmosphere  after 
he  arrived  —  and  he  insisted  that  the  cere- 
mony be  begun  all  over  again,  so  that  he 
shouldn't  lose  a  single  syllable.  I  am  glad 
to  find  that  the  old  boy  is  highly  pleased 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  281 

by  my  alliance  with  his  noble  family.  He 
cracked  a  joke  to  the  effect  that  his  side  of 
the  house  had  the  blood  and^ours  the  pork, 
and  that  the  combination  would  be  irresisti- 
ble; but  I  was  too  much  absorbed  in  my 
own  happiness  just  then  to  feel  hurt.  He 
wanted  to  know  when  you  were  coming 
home,  as  he  had  a  very  important  business 
scheme  to  propose  to  you.  If  I  were  you 
I'd  let  him  have  ten  or  fifteen  thousand 
for  the  sake  of  Helen,  who  is  a  dear  girl, 
and  takes  after  her  mother. 

The  going  home  to  Ma  was  something  of 
a  trial,  and  if  Helen  hadn't  been  a  mighty 
sensible  girl,  she'd  have  declined  to  stay  in 
the  house  a  single  night.  Ma  cut  up  badly 
because  there  had  been  no  bridesmaids  nor 
wedding-cake,  and  when  I  quoted  your  en- 
dorsement of  a  speedy  marriage,  she  said 
you  were  an  old  fool,  who,  if  you  had 
stopped  to  think,  would  probably  never 
have  got  married  yourself.  I  couldn't  just 
see  where  she  complimented  herself  very 
much  by  that,  but  I  didn't  try  to  show  her 
the  errors  of  her  logic  just  then.  I  just 
bucked  up  and  gave  her  a  tremendous 
steer  about  the  romance  that  must  be  in 
her  nature,  although  perhaps  long  dor- 


282  LETTERS    FROM    A   SON 

mant  from  the  force  of  circumstances. 
This  veiled  allusion  to  you  mollified  Ma  a 
good  deal,  and  pretty  soon  she  calmed 
down  completely  and  asked  us  to  come 
in  and  stay  as  long  as  we  liked. 

We  made  a  very  merry  little  party  after 
all.  Ma  sent  out  to  a  caterer's  for  a  good 
spread  and  produced  some  champagne  in 
some  mysterious  manner — I'd  no  idea 
there  was  any  in  the  house.  Pretty  soon 
the  General  turned  up  and  Ma  was  wonder- 
fully cordial.  She  even  brought  him  a 
bottle  of  your  1830  Private  Stock,  and  the 
way  stock  went  down  would  have  tickled 
the  bears  on  'Change  half  to  death.  The 
General  was  good  enough  to  say,  before  we 
escorted  him  to  his  chamber,  that  your 
taste  in  such  things  was  impeccable  —  that 
was  his  very  word,  "impeccable,  sir."  I 
can't  refrain  from  telling  you  that  he  made 
a  deep  impression  on  Ma,  and  I  think  if  I 
were  you  I  wouldn't  linger  in  Boston  too 
long. 

Do  you  know  that  your  last  letter,  so  full 
of  philosophy  as  applied  to  matrimony,  has 
set  me  to  wondering  what  has  made  you 
such  an  expert  on  wives.  You  talk  of 
nagging  women,  and  sulky  women,  and 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  283 

violent  women,  quite  as  if  by  the  book. 
Where  your  vast  experience  in  such  matters 
has  come  from  I  can't  quite  make  out.  At 
any  rate  I  want  it  distinctly  understood 
that  it  mustn't  be  taken  as  reflecting  on 
Ma.  Ma  is  now  ace  high  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Pierrepont  Graham,  having  proven 
herself  a  true  thoroughbred.  She  has 
cleaned  the  house  entirely  of  Graham  food 
products,  sending  them  all  to  the  Home 
for  Half  Orphans,  has  hired  a  decent  cook 
in  place  of  your  Scandinavian  horror,  and 
allows  that  she  likes  the  smell  of  cigars  in 
the  drawing-room.  From  this  on,  my  vote 
is  for  Ma,  no  matter  what  office  she  may 
run  for. 

I  may  mention  in  passing  that  Ma  said 
a  rather  curious  thing  the  other  day,  which 
you  may  be  able  to  explain.  I  had  made 
some  foolish  remark  about  getting  a  divorce 
because  of  something  Helen  had  said,  and 
Ma  reproved  me  for  it.  I  laughed  and  said 
to  Helen,  "  Mother  never  could  take  a 
joke." 

This  evidently  displeased  Ma,  for  she 
replied,  "  You  seem  to  have  forgotten, 
Pierrepont,  that  I  married  your  father." 

Women    are  queer  creatures,  anyhow. 


284  LETTERS    FROM    A    SON 

You  are  everlastingly  right,  father,  in  what 
you  say  about  the  undesirability  of  having 
them  in  places  of  business.  I  took  Helen 
to  the  packing  house  to-day,  intending  to 
show  her  through  the  establishment.  But 
one  glance  at  the  luckless  hogs  "travelling 
into  dry  salt  at  the  rate  of  one  a  minute," 
as  you  once  so  poetically  expressed  it, 
drove  all  idea  of  further  investigation  out 
of  her  pretty  head.  She  said  she'd  take 
for  granted  all  the  wonderful  facts  of  sau- 
sage and  lard,  and  proposed  lunch  at  the 
Palmer  House  instead.  So  you  see,  my 
little  experiment  took  some  valuable  time 
out  of  the  house.  Helen  goes  further  than 
either  of  us  in  this  distaste  for  women  in 
business  and  says  she  doesn't  think  we 
ought  to  have  girl  typewriters.  That  was 
after  she  caught  sight  of  mine,  who  isn't 
the  worst  ever,  as  you  know. 

But,  so  far,  I  am  pleased  to  state,  the 
honeymoon  has  not  waned  an  atom.  We 
are  keeping  pretty  close  to  the  house,  for 
what  a  shock  it  would  be  to  society  if  they 
knew  we  had  been  married  without  hustling 
off  on  a  wedding  tour.  The  bridal  trip 
business  has  always  struck  me  as  non- 
sensical. The  way  people  act  after  the 


TO   HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER.  285 

minister  gives  the  word,  you  would  think 
that  they  hated  the  place  where  they  deter- 
mined upon  the  irrevocable  step.  After 
you  get  home  and  certain  matters  are  ad- 
justed, I  think  I  would  like  to  go  to  Europe. 
You  see,  Helen  has  been  there  and  no  man 
likes  to  be  at  a  disadvantage  with  his  wife. 

You  may  feel  more  friendly  towards  this 
foreign  tour  when  I  tell  you  that  since 
Helen  forsook  her  native  Heath  she  has 
become  very  confidential  with  me  and  has 
told  rr.3  some  of  the  particulars  of  her  first 
meeting  with  you.  I  just  naturally  am 
pleased  with  the  details,  for  it  is  extremely 
gratifying  to  a  man  to  feel  that  his  father 
corroborates  his  good  taste  in  the  selection 
of  the  girl  of  his  choice.  It  is  certainly 
most  creditable  to  the  largeness  of  your 
paternal  heart  that  you  should  have  paid 
her  so  much  attention  in  the  first  few  days 
out  of  Liverpool.  It  was  a  great  courtesy 
for  you  to  arrange  her  tray  for  her  on  deck 
and  to  relieve  her  of  the  necessity  of  feeing 
the  stewards. 

Equally  kind  was  your  aid  in  adjusting 
her  wrap  on  the  windy  afternoon  that  you 
sat  alone  with  her  in  the  lee  of  the  smoke- 
stack.- But  it  was  unfortunate,  was  it  not, 


286  LETTERS   FROM   A   SON 

that  your  forgetfulness  in  not  withdrawing 
your  arm  from  the  back  of  her  steamer 
chair  was  called  to  your  attention  by 
Helen's  chance  remark  that  she  was  ac- 
quainted with  me?  Mother  has  never 
been  abroad,  so  I  have  not  told  her  of  your 
gallantry  to  your  fellow-passenger.  She 
might  not  understand  steamer  conventions. 
Helen,  perhaps,  might  mention  the  matter 
to  her  casually.  If  we  go  abroad,  as  I  sug- 
gest to  you,  I  will  take  special  pains  to 
destroy  her  entire  recollection  of  the  trip 
with  you- 

Oh,  by  the  way,  it  occurs  to  me  to  tell 
you  that  Cy  Willoughby  —  the  widower, 
not  his  brother  Seth  —  has  disinherited  his 
son  Arthur,  because  he  married  a  type- 
writer. It  was  not  because  of  the  mesal- 
liance, but  it  was  because  it  was  the  father 's 
typewriter  that  Arthur  married.  Possibly, 
when  I  think  of  Helen,  I  should  have  more 
than  the  dictates  of  filial  affection  as  a 
reason  for  gratitude  that  Ma  did  not  suc- 
cumb a  year  ago  last  winter  to  pneumonia 
and  the  six  doctors  you  insisted  on  having. 
As  you  so  succinctly  express  it,  Helen  is 
not  getting  any  the  best  of  it  in  marrying 
me.  Her  pater  may  not  be  very  much  of  a 


TO  HIS   SELF-MADE   FATHER^  287 

financial  proposition,  and  more  of  a  bottle 
than  a  battle-scarred  warrior,  but  he  can 
talk  about  his  great-grandfather,  and  that's 
more  than  you  care  to  do,  I  fancy.  Blood 
may  not  amount  to  much,  except  in  race- 
horses, but  when  you  balance  things  up, 
by  and  large,  neither  of  the  two  families 
need  to  take  off  their  hats  to  the  other. 
I'm  glad  Helen  has  a  family  whose  pic- 
tures she's  not  afraid  to  show,  for  it  sort  of 
evens  things  up  for  our  money.  (I  note 
that  I  have  omitted  the  "  y  "  before  "  our," 
but  you  will  understand  that  it  belongs 
there.) 

I  gather  from  your  last  letter  that  your 
curiosity  is  aroused  as  to  how  I  proposed. 
I  did  it  in  person.  It  happened  at  a  dance. 
I  told  Helen  the  other  day  that  she  really 
paved  the  way  for  my  proposal,  but  I  saw 
by  the  look  on  her  face  that  it  would  not  be 
safe  to  pursue  the  subject,  so  I  turned  it 
off  with  a  jest.  You  will  judge.  When  it 
came  time  to  dance  the  cotillion  she  said 
she  was  tired,  and  that,  anyway,  she  knew  a 
better  step  than  any  that  would  be  danced. 
So  we  went  out  into  the  hallway  and  she 
showed  me  the  step,  which  was  on  the  stairs, 
and  we  sat  there  till  the  cotillion  was  over. 


288  LETTERS   FROM    A   SON 

When  we  returned  to  the  ballroom  she  had 
me  guessing  as  to  where  I  would  get  the 
engagement  ring,  for  though  love  is  blind, 
it's  not  stone-blind  —  not  if  the  stone  is  a 
diamond. 

As  for  what  I  said,  well,  I  wouldn't  re- 
peat it,  even  if  I  remembered  it.  I  guess  I 
must  have  talked  a  lot  of  rot.  I  referred 
to  it  once  in  a  casual  way  and  Helen  burst 
out  laughing.  I  recall  that  she  didn't 
laugh  at  the  time.  She  probably  realized 
that  laughter  is  apt  to  scare  away  fish. 

I  am  very  happy,  for  I  have  discovered 
that  your  daughter-in-law  is  not  perfect, 
and  that  makes  the  inequality  between  us 
seem  a  trifle  less.  She  cried  yesterday, 
and  said  I  was  unkind,  and  all  because 
when  we  were  planning  the  house  that  I 
have  decided  you  shall  build  for  us,  I  sug- 
gested that  she  lay  out  the  clothes-closets 
and  have  the  architect  draw  his  plans 
around  them.  It  is  evident  that  repartee 
is  not  always  appreciated  in  the  family 
circle. 


I  was  interrupted  yesterday  by  a  call  to 
settle  a  dispute  between  Helen  and  Ma,  as 
to  whether  it  is  good  form  for  a  young 


TO  HIS  SELF-MADE   FATHER.  289 

married  woman  to  invite  lady  friends  who 
are  strangers  to  her  husband  to  call  infor- 
mally before  they  have  been  introduced  to 
him.  What  could  I  do?  I  looked  wise 
and  said  it  was  a  grave  point.  I  said  I 
would  consult  the  society  editor  of  the 
Ladies^  Home  Journal  and  went  out,  osten- 
sibly to  send  a  wire  to  Bok. 

When  I  returned  I  found  my  wife  in 
tears  —  second  crop.  She  had  read  the 
concluding  pages  of  this  letter  —  justified 
her  conduct  by  the  observation  that  there 
should  be  no  secrets  between  husband  and 
wife.  She  takes  exceptions  to  what  I  have 
written  you  about  my  proposal.  I  am  fin- 
ishing this  letter  down  town.  I  am  now 
going  to  'phcme  Helen  to  see  if  I  can  come 
home  to  dinner. 

Your  Benedict  son, 

Pierrepont. 

P.S.  You  need  not  consider  it  neces- 
sary to  continue  your  advisory  letters  to 
me.  I  can  see  that  I  will  receive  all  the 
advice  I  need  from  Mrs.  Pierrepont 


SOLTAIRE'S 


RECEPTION 

AT  HOME 


Mr.  Willey  has  a  direct  and  simple  way  of  telling 
his  story  which  places  him  in  contrast  by  no  means 
unfavorable  with  such  authors  as  appear  to  have 
more  vocabulary  than  imagination.  He  has  told  an 
interesting  story  well,  and  the  old  hermit  and  the 
little  waif  are  distinct  additions  to  the  long  list  of 
New  England  characters  in  fiction. —  Union,  Man- 
chester. 

The  natural  beauties  of  the  mountain  land  are 
skilfully  depicted,  and  the  word  pictures,  the  charac- 
ter delineation  and  the  progress  of  the  plot  are  so 
artfully  interwoven  that  the  reader  will  be  almost 
irresistibly  tempted  to  finish  the  story  atone  sitting. 
Monitor,  Concord. 

"  'Adirondack'  Murray  is  sponsor  for  nothing 
more  chaste  or  beautiful  in  phrasing  or  color.  In 
fact,  the  romance  is  so  weird  and  striking  in  con- 
trast with  the  modern  novel  that  the  reader  is  carried 
along  to  the  end  in  forgetfulneis  of  all  else." — Nashua 
Daily  Press. 

IN  BOSTON 


"  The  title  hero,  Soltaire,  a  hermit  of  the  moun- 
tains, reminds  one  of  Davy  Crockett  and  Daniel 
Boone,  but  is  a  more  literary  type,  being  of  a  mys- 
terious nature,  like  the  fabled  Old  Man  of  the  Sea. 
The  situations  in  the  story  are  highly  melodramatic, 
and  move  with  the  swift  and  free  rush  of  the  ava- 
lanche that  inspires  them." — Boston  Herald. 


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AGRICULTURE  :  Hon.  Nahum  J.  Bachelder,  Governor 
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State  Grange. 

INDUSTRIAL  :  Gustavus  A.  Cheney. 

EDUCATION  :  J.  H.  Fassett,  B.  A.,  Superintendent 
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